All Along
by roktavor
Summary: Assorted one-shots for Februabba 2020!
1. New Years

**A/N:** Happy Februabba! Prompts by seralinnette on tumblr/twitter!

As with last year, I'll do my best to write something for each day, and I'll stick any applicable warnings in the beginning notes of the chapter, so without further ado:

**Day 1: New Years**  
Warning for some allusions to alcoholism.

* * *

Abbacchio doesn't open the door when Buccellati knocks, but after a handful of seconds he does call out, "Who is it?" which is more than Buccellati was expecting.

Counting that as permission to come inside, Buccellati does, courtesy of Sticky Fingers. "It's me," he says. Unnecessarily, because who _else_ would be zipping their way through the front door – but it feels weirder not to announce himself somehow.

It's dark inside the apartment, and there's a lingering smell that implies Abbacchio did a some cleaning, at least. That's progress, especially considering the shape this place was in last week…

Holidays don't treat Abbacchio well. Soured memories, Buccellati suspects, but he doesn't know because Abbacchio doesn't talk much about his past. Made a face the first two times Buccellati asked, shut down and grumbled on the third, something about having enough of the past thanks to his stand.

Buccellati doesn't ask anymore. But he _will_ impose his presence, at least today, because it's a sad night to spend all alone.

…He tried to drag Fugo along, but he insisted on sleeping through the turn of the century. That, Buccellati knows for a fact, _is_ due to soured memories. He won't push where that's concerned, but Abbacchio is another matter entirely.

And there's the fact that Buccellati…doesn't want to spend tonight by himself. He has no soured memories. His family memories are _treasured_; it's the lonely ones he has trouble with, and, right, that's enough dwelling on that.

Abbacchio is here, now.

Toeing off his shoes, Buccellati shuffles into the apartment while shucking his coat. It's not too dark to see, the moonlight spilling in through opened curtains brightens things up. As his eyes adjust fully from the dim hall lighting, he spots Abbacchio, sitting slumped at his tiny dining table. His shoulders drooping and his eyes glaring vacant in the direction of the clock.

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, softer now that he's closer. He drapes his coat over the back of the only other dining chair, and waits.

Abbacchio blinks at him, his eyes slow, and sits up that much straighter. "Buccellati – what are you –"

"It's New Years."

That'll have to be enough of an explanation. Even though there's a furrow between Abbacchio's brows, he closes his mouth. Stares at Buccellati. There's a half-empty bottle of wine in front of him, no glass in sight. He doesn't reach for it.

"…Okay," he says, eventually.

Neither of them talk, after that. The only noise is the quiet ticking of the clock, which is starting to drive Buccellati up the wall. A glance tells him that there's only about ten minutes of 1999 left.

It should feel weird, spending them here like this.

But it doesn't.

For once, Buccellati can't even muster frustration at the scent of alcohol that clings to Abbacchio. The sense of hopelessness that hangs over this apartment like a heavy curtain when Abbacchio's in one of his moods – altogether too often – is gone tonight, which probably helps. More progress.

Abandoning his spot at the table, Buccellati wanders around it until he gets to that window. "Do you think we'll see fireworks, from here?" he asks, to shut that clock up.

Abbacchio shifts in his seat, leaning forward until his elbows can rest on the tabletop. "Don't know," he mumbles. After a pause, he adds on, "Probably. Everyone's going crazy over the turn of the century." To his credit, he only sounds a little bit grumpy and not very drunk.

For some reason, that makes a spot of warmth sprout in Buccellati's chest. He has no idea why.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

"Yeah." Buccellati turns away from purple-gold eyes that shimmer in the dark, to stare out over the city instead. "You're right."

According to the clock, there are about four minutes left of the year, now. Buccellati sneaks glances at it in between staring out the window. Behind him, the sound of Abbacchio rolling the wine bottle between his hands and picking at the label joins the ticking of the clock, and then…

Fireworks. Lighting up the sky (and causing a cacophony to rival the sounds of the apparently _very_ excitable family that lives above Abbacchio).

There's some kind of thrill in Buccellati's stomach at the sight, and he's not sure why, because even if the world _feels_ different at the start of the year, nothing actually changes – not even with the turn of the century. But he's always loved fireworks. He and his father used to watch them, and they even set small ones off on the beach, once, the year before…well. The year before it all went to shit.

Buccellati unlatches the window, opening it for a better view. A cold breeze finds its way in, but it barely registers.

…Though.

Buccellati _does_ feel the contrasting warmth that presses in next to him, along with the scent of alcohol to battle the fresh air as Abbacchio hovers close. When Buccellati glances over, there are lights reflecting in Abbacchio's eyes, and that weird feeling in his chest returns.

The bottle of wine is dangling between Abbacchio's fingers. Without preamble, he lifts his arm and tosses it out the window, where it shatters against the sidewalk five stories below.

Buccellati is having an awfully hard time ungluing his eyes from Abbacchio. That warm pool in his chest keeps him stuck, watching the wry twitch of Abbacchio's lips, and the fireworks still mirrored in his eyes, washing him in color.

Eventually, Buccellati hauls his attention back to the display outside. They stay like this – Abbacchio beside him, close enough to reach out and touch – as the excitement around them piques, then settles down.

When the last of the fireworks have gone off, Buccellati reaches out to close the window. Abbacchio's hand on the glass stops him halfway.

"Leave it," Abbacchio mumbles. And then seems to realize that he's standing very close, hovering over Buccellati, now, and yanks his hand back as if burnt. Takes half a step away and clears his throat. "Fresh air…"

Buccellati, _for some reason_, can't help but smile.

* * *

**A/N:** Told myself I'd keep these under 1k words this year, and I already failed. :")

Thanks for reading!


	2. Cooking

**A/N:** Day 2: Cooking

Domestic nonsense ahead...

* * *

The familiar clatter of keys unlocking the front door comes an _entire hour_ earlier than Abbacchio was expecting – so he rushes out of the kitchen, hurrying for the entryway and accidentally-on-purpose blocking Buccellati's path as soon as he's through the door.

"You're early," Abbacchio blurts, his heart doing something overexcited and confused in his chest. At this rate, he'll be found out.

One of Buccellati's eyebrows tweaks higher as he sets his luggage down, tucking his keys into his pocket. "Hello, Leone. I missed you, too."

_Haha_.

That is _not_ funny, and it doesn't make a tiny shard of guilt impale Abbacchio's stomach for his subpar greeting, either. It's a nice companion to the squirming embarrassment that's already settled in.

Buccellati is watching him with a weird expression. Getting weirder.

That's deserved. Because Abbacchio is _acting_ weird. And the longer he stays quiet, the weirder this gets, and so he opens his mouth and lets some words fall out before his brain is fully collected. "Welcome back."

That weird expression melts into a tiny, fond smile. _Fuck_. Buccellati steps closer, easily halving the distance between them. "I caught an earlier train," he explains.

Ah.

That's. That's great, just fantastic, wonderful all around. Nerves and joy play tug-of-war with Abbacchio's insides. He's stuck now.

Bruno is home, and Abbacchio is happy about it – _ecstatic_, even – but because of the little scheme he's cooking up (ha) in the kitchen, he can't bring himself to wrap Buccellati in a tight hug and smother him with kisses like he wants to. His brain is too busy searching frantically for a solution.

Moody Blues is waiting in the other room, paused, and Abbacchio could call him back, yeah, only he didn't check the timestamp and so has no idea where in the process his stand is paused.

Maybe he could pretend _he_ was the one standing at the counter, but that means he'll have to finish dinner himself, and if he could do that, he _wouldn't be in this mess in the first place_.

"What are you up to?" Buccellati is very close now, chin tipped up and eyes sparkling with something so genuine it makes Abbacchio's knees weak. "I was away for two weeks; I thought you'd be happier to see me."

Finally, Abbacchio frees his useless frozen limbs and grabs for Buccellati. Clutches him close, squeezes him in a tight hug that's instantly returned. He buries his face into Buccellati's shoulder in a way he hasn't been able to for _two weeks_.

"I am." These excited-nervous thrills that keep racing through Abbacchio's stomach are proof of that. God.

Buccellati hums out a comfortable noise, pressing a kiss to Abbacchio's temple, _melting_ against him, a perfect fit in his arms. "I really did miss you," Buccellati says, voice low.

That's a lot for him to say, Abbacchio knows, and he feels those words right to his core. "Me, too." He clings ever-tighter to Buccellati. "You just surprised me."

They stay that way for a moment, until Abbacchio figures he had better let Buccellati breathe, and backs off just a little. Keeps his arms wound around Buccellati's waist – and falls into deep blue eyes, getting so lost that he forgets what made him frantic until:

"Hm." Buccellati leans into Abbacchio's chest, nosing around. First at the base of his throat, and then at the junction of shoulder and neck.

Odd, even for him.

"…What are you doing?"

"You smell like pasta," Bruno announces, when he comes up for air, his eyes making playful contact with Abbacchio's.

_Shit_. "No I don't." There's no way that's possible, after all. It's a kind of hot and stuffy in the kitchen, sure, but scents don't transfer like –

Buccellati licks him.

Right behind the corner of his jaw, along the hairline. Then follows it up with a gentle bite, and then suckling pressure that's got Abbacchio tipping his head to offer more access, because _holy fuck_. The spot is thoroughly ravished to bruising by the time Buccellati pulls back.

Falling slow and delicate back to earth – coming back to himself – Abbacchio has every intention of ducking down to kiss Buccellati in return, but he's interrupted by the man himself.

"You're lying."

Oh! Right!

Lie detection!

Abbacchio is fucked, now, most especially because of that self-satisfied smile that flashes across Buccellati's face.

(…The hickey afterward wasn't necessary, was it?

Will Buccellati do that again, if Abbacchio keeps denying things?)

"Leone," Buccellati says, hauling Abbacchio out of his very-distractible-today thoughts with warm palms cupping his jaw. "Are you making dinner?"

Excellent question. Simple, and easy to answer. So of course Abbacchio takes his time mulling it over before offering up a, "Maybe." It was either that or 'kind of', but 'maybe' sounds less ominous. He thinks. Hopes.

"'Maybe'?"

"…Yeah."

Buccellati uses his superior grace and charm (and his _stand_) to slip out of Abbacchio's arms, escaping around behind him in the direction of the kitchen. "What happened?" he asks, acting like Abbacchio blew up the stove or something (that was _one time_, and it was Narancia's fault).

"_Nothing_." Nothing that's not _embarrassing_ to be caught doing, at least. Abbacchio is _competent_ when it comes to cooking!

But, see. This is a _special_ occasion and he gave it his best, which called for a little help to get things just right. He scrambles after Buccellati, again caught between hiding his stand and thinking up excuses and readying explanations – too bad the walk from the entryway to the kitchen is _short_.

So now Buccellati's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, tiny frown in place at the sight of Moody-Blues-rewound-to-Bruno standing paused at the counter, halfway through opening a pack of mushrooms. Ingredients littered all around. Including the pasta that Buccellati caught wind of, which has been hanging around made for a bit, now, because Abbacchio can do that part himself, thank you.

"Is…am I making my own welcome-home dinner?"

"No." Abbacchio squeezes past Buccellati, putting himself between boyfriend and kitchen yet again. "Moody Blues is."

"Why –"

"Because I tried to last night, but you make it with all your weird ingredients, and I couldn't remember the right amounts of everything because you don't write shit down, so it came out…" absolutely disgusting, he could wince at the mere memory, "wrong."

The only response is a raised eyebrow from Buccellati. Abbacchio plows on.

"So. Moody-Bruno is making it, while I…write shit down…so next time I can. Do it by myself. For you." It feels like he's blushing. Maybe he can blame the heat of the kitchen. They should open a window. Or something.

Buccellati smiling again doesn't help the whole blushing situation. Especially not when he reaches up to bury his fingers in Abbacchio's hair, just at the base of his skull, so he can tip Abbacchio down for a kiss.

"You're very thoughtful," Buccellati mumbles, when they part. His mouth is _close_, and plush lips catch Abbacchio's again before he can protest.

Abbacchio does his best to grumble, anyway.

It doesn't work, considering all it gets is a sweet little laugh from Buccellati that's got Abbacchio's heart doing somersaults.

Hand trailing out of Abbacchio's hair, Buccellati brushes it over his shoulder and down the length of his arm until he can entwine their fingers. "Here," he says, guiding Abbacchio to the counter, "we'll finish it together."

x

"Moody-Bruno is a good cook," Buccellati jibes, later, once he's done eating and is sipping contentedly at his wine, waiting for Abbacchio to finish.

Scoffing, Abbacchio stabs at the last of his dinner and grumbles out an amused, "That's not what I usually use him for," on automatic, because Buccellati doesn't know the _half_ of it.

Silence.

Across the table, Buccellati is sitting frozen. With a considering sort of expression in place.

…

Abbacchio's words-that-he-didn't-mean-to-let-slip catch up to his own ears and he almost _chokes_.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	3. Presents

**A/N:** Day 3: Presents

Pre-relationship, fluff,

* * *

It starts with Abbacchio standing on Buccellati's doorstep one late Monday afternoon, without being summoned and after being given the day off.

Strange as it is to see him here, Buccellati forgets manners in favor of asking, "What is it?"

Because if Abbacchio came all the way here it must be with either an emergency or a complaint – he's not the type for casual visits. (Though. Buccellati wouldn't mind if he was.)

But Abbacchio doesn't seem panicked, or angry, or even vaguely miffed. He seems casual. Well, except for the pink tint to his cheeks, but that can be chalked up to the bite of winter air.

He doesn't answer Buccellati's question. Instead, he fishes around in the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small, neat box. The box is offered wordlessly, with Abbacchio averting his eyes when Buccellati tries to read them.

After too many seconds of standing and staring while he tries to puzzle out this bizarre behavior, Buccellati figures he should probably take the box.

So he does. His fingers brushing warm against Abbacchio's cold ones.

Opening the box reveals two matching golden hair clips, shiny and brand new, with a tasteful design to them. No matter how long Buccellati scrutinizes them, though, he has no idea what they mean. Or why Abbacchio handed them over so cryptically. Or why his heart won't calm down as he runs his thumb over the smooth surface of one of the clips.

"One of yours broke, yesterday. On that mission." Abbacchio's voice is halting, and he clears his throat before continuing. "I couldn't find a match, so…"

…So he went and bought an entirely new pair. Real gold, Buccellati's pretty sure, as he plucks one out of its box and rolls it between his fingers.

His heart is even more frantic, now. Looking Abbacchio in the eye doesn't do much to fix that. "You didn't have to –"

"I know."

The eye contact is getting to be a bit much. Buccellati never really noticed that Abbacchio's eyes are like a sunset until he got this direct of a comparison, with the sun sinking behind Abbacchio as it is, and the sky going all purple-gold.

Abbacchio blinks, and goes back to staring at somewhere over Buccellati's shoulder instead. It's disappointing, for some reason. His cheeks are still pink from the cold. "But it'd take you forever to buy yourself a replacement, so someone had to," he grumbles.

Despite himself, Buccellati smiles.

x

Now, a week later, here Buccellati stands.

With those clips in his hair as he stares down the collection of lipstick in front of him.

He knows _exactly_ what he's doing here. Even if he wants to call this an impulse purchase made while he's already out running errands, it's _not_, really. Because running errands doesn't ever take him to this high-end makeup shop that Abbacchio frequents.

The tailor's is close enough, though, that it might be believable that he just…coincidentally ambled in here, instead of going straight home after picking up his freshly altered suit.

That isn't at all what happened, though. The suit is a convenient excuse to come this way, and he knows it, but that doesn't mean Abbacchio has to.

If he's allowed to give thoughtful-presents-thinly-veiled-as-practical, then so is Buccellati.

Even if it took him some time to work up the courage and plan.

It's fine.

Abbacchio's favorite black lipstick is running out. He complained the other day about how other, less expensive brands just don't have the same staying power, but coming all the way out here just for one tube of lipstick is a pain.

So Buccellati will simply pick it up while he's in the neighborhood. Drop it into Abbacchio's hand the next time they meet – tomorrow morning – and call it coincidence, insisting that he doesn't need to be paid back.

Nothing to it.

He's already got the color in his hand, ready to purchase, but. Something's caught his eye, down the line of shades. Reds and pinks and nudes and Abbacchio's signature black…plus one that's a damn close match for the purple of Abbacchio's eyes.

It. Doesn't exactly match. (Not that Buccellati spends overly long staring into Abbacchio's eyes and marveling at their beauty and depth when he can get away with it…or…anything.) But the color is close enough that if Abbacchio wore it, it would highlight his eyes nicely; make them pop even more than they do when contrasting against severe black.

But Buccellati's never seen Abbacchio wear any color other than black, on his lips – or anywhere else on his person, for that matter. All of his clothes are black, too, after all. Or at least dark.

He doesn't like any other shade.

If Buccellati bought him this bright, vibrant purple, he'd likely never wear it, whether it looked nice or not.

…Plus, this might cross the line between a casual 'I was in the neighborhood and picked this up for you' and a personal 'I bought this because I think it would suit you'.

Buying both would be even more incriminating than just buying the one, but if Buccellati only buys the purple, then Abbacchio will go buy his own black to replace it, anyway, so in a way that seems less thoughtful and more forceful. Or worse, Abbacchio will feel _obligated_ to wear the purple, and Buccellati doesn't want that either.

Buccellati takes a step down the aisle, toward the checkout counter, and pauses.

Turns back around. Plucks one of the purple lipsticks free of the shelf.

Then he buys both purple and black, before he can second guess himself again. It's not like he _has_ to give it to Abbacchio, after all, if he changes his mind later…

…

Except that fate is determined to give him no choice at all, because when Buccellati steps out of the shop he nearly collides with _a very familiar chest_, and stops dead in his tracks.

"Buccellati?" Abbacchio takes a step back, scowl in place. "What are you doing here?"

There's no way to dodge that at all. No way to play this off as a coincidence now. There's nothing for it but to…

"I was…out this way, picking up my suit," here, Buccellati lifts his left arm, brandishing the clothes bag draped there. And coincidentally also brandishing the recognizable bag from the makeup store behind them, held in that same hand. "And I figured I'd…" The fingers of his right hand fumble with his left, and he finagles the smaller bag free. "Here."

Abbacchio's scowl melts into something more wide-eyed. Slowly, and after so much hesitation that Buccellati thinks he's just not going to, he takes the bag. Even slower than that, he plucks both small packages out for consideration. Stares down at them with growing patches of red on his cheeks.

The cold weather. Buccellati's sure. Though it doesn't explain why his own face feels _warm_, but that's irrelevant right now.

"You needed lipstick, right?"

After a moment, Abbacchio nods. His eyes are still glued to the lipsticks in his hand, his thumb running over their simple packaging.

And Buccellati tries to keep it to himself – he really does – but in the end he can't help it. Feels the need to explain himself, or maybe to fill the silence. "The purple one I bought because…I thought it would look nice on you. You don't have to –"

"Thank you." Abbacchio's entire face is now _bright_ red, his black-painted lips pressed into a firm line as he closes his fist around the lipsticks. He ducks his head and tucks them back into their bag. "You," he clears his throat, "didn't have to."

Relief spreads through Buccellati, though for some reason it does nothing to quell the frantic _something_ that flutters around his stomach and chest. "I was in the neighborhood."

Abbacchio's fist clenches around the bag handle. He nods, or is maybe just dodging eye contact again.

"If you don't need anything else here," Buccellati says, tone as measured as he can keep it, "do you want to go back together?"

"That…that would be nice."

* * *

A/N: I miss Abbacchio's black lipstick from the manga but also I love the way they color his eyes in the anime and so here I sit.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Disguise

**A/N:** Day 4: Disguise

Forewarning for some melancholic Abbacchio thoughts (nothing severe), just in case.

* * *

Being in uniform again sucks ass. Abbacchio can't pretend that it doesn't, not even a little – can't get the scowl off of his face as he adjusts his outfit in the mirror. It won't settle right, but there's nothing for it, because he's a bit bulkier than he was back then.

He shouldn't even still _have_ this damn thing. Should've burned it, or thrown it away, or something. Yet somehow it stayed with him.

If it wasn't for Buccellati's sake – for the…for the _gang's_ sake – he would've refused to wear it at all. Never would've so much as looked at again, much less pulled it out of storage to _iron_.

After this, he'll burn it. Discard and destroy it like it deserves.

The sight of it clinging to his frame is almost enough to turn his stomach, now (a far cry from the way it squared his proud shoulders the very first time he put it on but he _won't think about that _– he won't), and is definitely enough to turn his insides into a black hole of dread. Not thinking about it is no use. Memories are closer than even Moody Blues can bring them, with this, for fuck's sake.

And as if _that_ weren't enough, there's the fact that it doesn't even flatter him the way it used to. He used to look handsome. Smart and neat. Or at least he thought he did, back then.

Now it's all tight at the shoulders, and his hair hangs long, looking out of place. Unprofessional.

He huffs, tugging at the uniform some more.

His hair will go up, hidden in his hat, and he'll take his makeup off…that'll make it look a little better. And disguise him further, because his lipstick will be too damn recognizable if he leaves it on.

There's a subtle cough from behind him, and – Buccellati is there, leaning just inside the door. Abbacchio turns around to face him fully, though part of him would rather not. Blue eyes are glued to Abbacchio, giving him a once over and making him want to rearrange his clothes all over again despite the fact that it'll do no good.

"You look nice," Buccellati says, with an indecipherable note to his voice.

Kind of him to say so; Abbacchio knows it's a lie. He gives a sour grin and a scoff of, "Thanks."

Buccellati steps into the room properly, then, and his expression is schooled into something on the soft side of serious. His fingers reach out and catch on the end of Abbacchio's sleeve. "Sorry, that you have to wear this again."

"It's fine," Abbacchio grumbles. He isn't sure if the warm proximity of Buccellati's hand is helping or hindering him, here, but at least it fights off the memories some. "Happy to help."

Doesn't look like Buccellati buys it, which is fine, because Abbacchio wasn't really trying to sell it.

At least Buccellati doesn't comment on it. Though his hand is farther away, his expression steely. "After you pull the files, come right back. Don't get caught. I'll stay nearby in case you need a quick getaway."

By quick getaway, he means Sticky Fingers opening the walls and blowing the entire operation via loss of subtlety. So Abbacchio will try _not_ to need that. He's useful for _some_ things, after all, even if it's only blending back into police headquarters.

"Got it. I'll be quick."

Nodding, Buccellati wanders off toward the dresser, and Abbacchio is again left alone with his reflection in the full length mirror. It hasn't improved any.

Ugh. He's got to get used to the sight of himself in this uniform. If not, he's liable to ruin his flimsy cover by scowling at any reflective surface he happens to pass.

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Putting it up is necessary. Hiding it all in his hat without doing so would be a dangerous game, but now that he's messing with the thick length of it, he might have too much hair for even that…

"Here." Buccellati is back close again, just visible behind Abbacchio in the mirror. He's brandishing a hair tie, and lifting both hands in offer. "Let me."

So Abbacchio lets him. Tugs his hands free of his hair to let Buccellati mess with it instead.

Gentle fingers comb through, smoothing out tangles and gathering all of it into a ponytail, and…it feels nice. The hands in his hair, fingertips brushing his scalp. The warmth of Buccellati close behind him –

Then Buccellati ties off the ponytail, running his fingers over it one last time before letting it fall down Abbacchio's back. "There."

Abbacchio reaches back to inspect it for himself. Seems like a good enough height to hide. Loose and unobtrusive enough that he won't lose his hat and give himself away. Definitely better than cutting it all off (which is what Fugo suggested, and Abbacchio threatened to strangle him for).

"You really do look nice, you know."

…Well!

Standing stock still and silent probably isn't the best response to show Buccellati that Abbacchio is kind of sort of very much flustered as hell over that.

See, saying it once is just being polite, maybe even a joke. Saying it _twice_ – while blushing, Abbacchio can see Buccellati's flushed cheeks and the crooked tilt of his mouth in the mirror – is being _genuine_ and that's. That _can't_ be right.

Abbacchio doesn't fucking see it. This stupid uniform's caused him nothing but grief, and it continues to do so, Buccellati's hands in his hair aside.

But the way Buccellati is looking at him makes him feel not-awful.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading,,


	5. Haircut

**A/N:** Day 5: Haircut

Silly and domestic, uhm,

* * *

Abbacchio is wandering down the hall – a little stuck in his head, contemplating lunch, wondering whether Buccellati will want to go out or stay in – when the unmistakable sound of zippers breaks through his thoughts. The thin, food-related fog in his mind clears, and he stops in his tracks, head tilted to listen.

It's coming from the bathroom. The unzip, zip, repeat pattern.

So Abbacchio backtracks. Their bathroom door is open, and the light is on – and sure enough there's Buccellati, standing in front of the sink.

There's nothing weird about that, specifically. It'd be one hundred percent normal, even, if it weren't for the fact that Sticky Fingers is here, too. Accounts for the zipper noises, but it's still bizarre: Buccellati staring into the bathroom mirror with his stand nearby, and…

Unzipping his bangs?

As hair is unzipped, it drifts into the sink, only to be reattached by Sticky Fingers less than a second later. Buccellati is focused intently on his task. So much so that he doesn't notice Abbacchio.

At least, he doesn't until Abbacchio opens his big fat mouth and asks, "What are you doing?"

"Oh." Buccellati casts his unaffected gaze out into the hallway, hair half-unzipped and trickling in front of one of his eyes. "I didn't see you there, Leone."

Sticky Fingers reattaches the hair as Buccellati turns back to the mirror, and Abbacchio is even more confused than he was a second ago. Which sure is something.

Moving in with Bruno has been an experience and a half, but Abbacchio's never felt quite this baffled. (Then again. It has only been a couple weeks.)

"I'm cutting my hair," Buccellati explains, which clears absolutely nothing up. His stand tacks on a helpful, "Ari," which clears even less than nothing up, though maybe Moody Blues would understand.

"But…Sticky Fingers is putting it back," Abbacchio points out. Slowly.

Humming, Buccellati has his stand zip off a couple centimeters of hair from everywhere except his bangs this time. He frowns, and it's instantly zippered back on. "Yes, for now."

O…kay.

Interest sufficiently piqued, Abbacchio shuffles into the room. There are indeed hair cutting scissors sitting on the sink's counter, but Buccellati keeps his hands well clear of them. The only one who moves is Sticky Fingers, and Abbacchio can only stand to keep quiet and watch the two of them experiment with hair lengths for so long.

"_Why_ are you doing that?"

This time, Buccellati's bangs are cut at an angle, his hair inverted the opposite way, and he tilts his head with an amused snort. Shaking it once brings the chopped off layer back, zipped into place like nothing happened.

It wasn't a bad look, but it's gone too fast for Abbacchio to compliment. So he doesn't. Just stands waiting patiently for some kind of explanation.

"I cut them too short once," Buccellati says, Sticky Fingers lobbing off a generous portion of his bangs to illustrate. Abbacchio covers his laugh with a polite cough. "So now I test the length before committing."

Ah. That makes sense. "Smart."

Nose wrinkling as his bangs are reattached, Buccellati tries just a bit off the ends of his entire haircut, this time. He nods to himself, and then finally takes up the scissors. Sticky Fingers' zippers are still in place to act as a sort of guide while he cuts. So _that's_ how he gets it so neat…

Abbacchio, meanwhile, leans against the wall to watch. "Why don't you just let Sticky Fingers leave it off?"

"I get split ends faster, when he does it."

"Ari," Sticky Fingers confirms, almost sounding ashamed of himself.

"…I see."

Buccellati's dexterous fingers make quick work of trimming his hair, moving with a level of ease that has to come from practice. Dark hairs flutter to the ground and into the sink alike, and when Buccellati's finished he brushes even more of them from his shirt. (Hopefully to clean up later, Abbacchio _just_ swept in here yesterday.)

Scissors are set aside, and Sticky Fingers is dispersed. Buccellati runs both hands through his hair, ruffling it and combing it out until it falls into place, pristine as ever.

"Looks nice," Abbacchio says, because it's true and works as convenient cover for being unable to take his eyes off of the spot where freshly cut ends of dark hair brush at Buccellati's jaw. _God_, he wants to kiss that spot. But it's weird timing. Right?

"Thank you." Still looking in the mirror, Buccellati tips his head this way and that, only stopping when he apparently deems this haircut acceptable. "It's not in my eyes anymore, at least."

Eyes that…fix on Abbacchio, now.

With a certain shine in them. A shine that's got Abbacchio standing up that much straighter. Because _that_ look is uncomfortably reminiscent of the way Mista looks before picking off of Narancia's plate to feed Sex Pistols (for the third time in a row).

The expression is playful and mischievous and _rare_ to find on Buccellati.

Abbacchio's arms fall out of their loosely crossed posture to hang at his sides. "What?"

"Do you want to try?" A tiny smile has appeared on Buccellati's face to go with that shine to his eye. Abbacchio does not stand a chance.

"…Try what?"

Buccellati makes scissors out of his fingers and mimes cutting his own hair. "One of Sticky Fingers' haircuts. It's kind of fun."

"_No_."

"Aw, come on, Leone." The smile on Buccellati's face cracks wider – _Abbacchio does not stand a chance_ – and he even summons Sticky Fingers back. "I want to see what you looked like with short hair."

"I looked like shit," Abbacchio grouches, even though he can feel himself _blushing_. He ducks away from Sticky Fingers' encroaching hands, sends out Moody Blues to block subsequent attempts – darts out of the bathroom completely –

"What about chin-length?" Buccellati pursues into the hallway, with laughter in his voice, and Abbacchio's insides are molten butterflies but _no_.

"_Absolutely _not." Those were dark days. For his own good, and to spare Buccellati the sight, Abbacchio continues to flee around their tiny-ass apartment. With Buccellati close behind, and Moody Blues doing its best to hold out against Sticky Fingers' overzealous zippers.

A hand brushes the ends of Abbacchio's hair, but he throws himself over the back of the couch at the last second. Rolls onto the floor and circles around.

"Shoulder length?" Buccellati tries, chasing back down the hallway.

Ugh, the awkward stage where the ends go all wonky and flipped out in an unintentional, _unattractive_ way? "No!" Why the hell would Buccellati want to witness that mess?

"I'll put it right back!" Buccellati promises, and, fuck, there's even more amusement in his tone, now.

If Abbacchio turns around, he's screwed – but he might be screwed anyway because he's gotten himself cornered in the office. No escape routes here. He'll have to get around Buccellati somehow…

Buccellati stops a little ways away, though, sporting his (_extremely unfair_) not-quite-pout. Puppy eyes. God. Turning around really was a mistake.

"Please, Leone?"

Argh, stupid Bruno. Stupid heart in Abbacchio's stupid chest doing stupid flips. He bites his lip, because his mouth is trying very hard to smile when he's telling it to frown. "_No_." He ducks beneath Buccellati's outstretched arm. Gets behind him and flees the room, with Buccellati quick to follow. "Cut it out!"

"Hm? Cut your hair?"

"Bruno, you piece of shit –"

* * *

**A/N:** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Thanks for reading!


	6. Kiss

**A/N:** Day 6: Kiss

* * *

"Leone, can I have a kiss?"

Abbacchio chokes on his tea.

Setting the cup down with a clatter, he coughs into his fist for a good few seconds, face flushed on what's surely vibrant blush because where in the hell did _that_ come from? "_What?_" he hisses as soon as he's got his breathing back under control and is no longer in danger of drowning in his own damn tea.

"Can I, um…" Buccellati readjusts in his seat. His cheeks are also dusted a telltale pink. "Can you kiss me?"

"_Why?_" Abbacchio growls out. Lucky that it _sounds_ irritated.

Unfortunately, Buccellati knows Abbacchio too well to fall for that. The telltale blush might be enough on its own, but Abbacchio feels his lips quivering in that awful way they do when he's _flustered_. There's no way that Buccellati can't read that.

The why thing is a valid question, though. Kissing _here_, in the restaurant, and _now_, when the others are on their way – sure, they're alone for now, but in maybe five minutes they won't be. Never mind that other patrons are a thin divider away. Open displays of affection in public aren't a thing that happens between them, it's like an unspoken rule.

Well. Not like an unspoken rule, considering they've actually spoken about it before, and privacy bordering on secrecy is the way they've decided their relationship should be dealt with. All things considered.

It'd be bad if word got out that Buccellati…uh…plays favorites. For lack of a better term.

Anyway!

Abbacchio's mind is fast spiraling into sidetracked territory, all the while Buccellati hesitates. His composure is barely holding up, which serves him right, for the way he instantly shattered Abbacchio's with just a handful of words.

"You've never kissed me when you're wearing your lipstick," Buccellati blurts out, just when Abbacchio was starting to worry. His eyes catch Abbacchio's as he speaks, and they're flooded with something unrecognizable.

Ah. Is that all.

If Abbacchio was red before, his face is now a whole new level of on-fire. That tea he was previously drowning in is incredibly interesting all of a sudden, and he tears his eyes away from Buccellati's to down the rest of it in a single gulp.

Now he has to acknowledge this, huh? He sets his teacup down too heavily to be casual. "I didn't know you noticed," he mumbles to the tablecloth.

"Of course I did." Buccellati sounds almost frustrated, which isn't fair. "I've been trying to –"

He cuts himself off, and oh, _that's_ interesting. More interesting than the goddamn tablecloth, so Abbacchio finds the courage to look at Buccellati instead.

That sure is a bona fide blush he's sporting, by now. Abbacchio's never seen him this red, or this eager to avoid eye contact. He's even sipping at his own tea, now, although slower, because _his_ goal isn't to burn his throat.

"You've been…"

Buccellati coughs, just once. "Yes."

Well shit. That explains why Buccellati's been so fervent, when they're alone.

But Abbacchio always dodges kisses when he's wearing his lipstick. Because he figured…huh. _Interesting_. His mouth pulls into a pathetic excuse for a wry grin, and he points a finger at it. "You _want_ to kiss me with this on?"

"_Yes_," Buccellati says, with more enthusiasm, this time. Probably more than he meant to, if the way he hurries back to his tea is any indication.

Too late, though. The damage is done, the heated thrill already racing down Abbacchio's spine at that single word. "But." Abbacchio's face _was_ cooling down, but it gives up on that now. "It gets everywhere."

There's a tiny intake of breath from Buccellati. Or maybe a sigh? Hard to tell the difference, it's so small. Whatever the case, he sets his cup down and turns to Abbacchio, quiet for a few seconds before, "I wouldn't mind."

"…You're serious?" The lack of expression on Buccellati's face would imply that, yeah, he is. "Even in the morning, when everyone else could –"

"It's fine," Buccellati interrupts. His eyes are fixed on Abbacchio's mouth. "We can clean up."

Swallowing, Abbacchio fiddles with the handle of his empty teacup. His other hand flicks his hair over his shoulder. If he doesn't keep both hands busy, he's liable to grab Buccellati right this second.

How long has Buccellati been thinking about this, wanting it? Abbacchio tries to remember every time Buccellati's come at him right after his makeup is applied, when they find a private corner during the day, or at night right before his lipstick comes off – but he's drawing a blank on when it started, with all of Buccellati's attention so fixed.

This is something that Abbacchio never let himself consider before. Or rather, _tried_ not to let himself consider. Secrecy-bordering-on-privacy doesn't really call for black lipstick smeared over Buccellati's mouth via Abbacchio's mouth, after all. Something like that would violate the stipulation.

And. Previous partners have complained about what a pain his lipstick is to remove, once it's started coming off and gotten spread over skin. Habitually taking it off before any kissing is par for the course, by now.

But here's Buccellati. Eyes finally flicking back to meet Abbacchio's, blue flooded with the dark of his pupils. "Is that okay with you?" he asks, and _god_.

Now that Abbacchio's allowing himself to picture Buccellati's smooth, tanned skin marked with dark lipstick – black pressed onto his mouth, cheek, _trailed down his neck_, all the way to his chest where it accents his tattoo – Abbacchio is pretty damn sure there's nothing he wants more.

"Yeah," he breathes, right onto Buccellati's lips, because suddenly they're both sitting _a whole lot closer_ than before. Buccellati's knees brushing Abbacchio's thigh. "Yeah, it's fine."

Buccellati – already tantalizingly, dangerously close – surges forward and shoves his mouth firm to Abbacchio's.

The contact only lasts a second, Abbacchio pulling back, because even that quick kiss is enough to transfer glossy black from his lips to Buccellati's. But that, apparently, is not enough, because Buccellati cups his jaw in a gentle palm and pulls Abbacchio back in for _more_.

Dark lipstick slides sticky between them as Buccellati deepens the kiss. Darts his tongue into the mix here and there, sucks and bites at Abbacchio's mouth with fervor and Abbacchio pushes into the contact. Feels his lipstick spread. Buccellati's hands both find their way into Abbacchio's hair and he _groans_ when they tangle there.

Those hands keep him held close as Buccellati gets his fill, and Abbacchio gives everything he can (and then some more). He cups Buccellati's face, then his neck, then wraps arms tight around him as he climbs into Abbacchio's lap, changing the angle of their kiss.

Drowning in Buccellati is _so much better_ than drowning in tea.

They part with a wet sound, and Buccellati breathes out a soft, "_Leone_."

And. Just like that, Abbacchio is the one yanking Buccellati into a kiss.

This one is all slick and sloppy, even more so than the last. Their teeth bump together a couple times, and Abbacchio can taste lipstick on his tongue, can feel it thinning as it transfers to Buccellati's mouth. As it spreads _everywhere_.

Leaving that plush mouth, Abbacchio presses his trail of kisses across Buccellati's cheek before he can help it. It feels natural, somehow, especially so when he can feel the heavy beating of Buccellati's heart in his own chest at this proximity. He barely resists the urge to take his kisses down the length of Buccellati's neck – settles for pressing them in behind his ear.

"Happy now?" Abbacchio murmurs, nipping at the skin under his mouth.

Buccellati catches the rest of his breath on a content sort of sigh, and he sinks heavy against Abbacchio, going pliant in his lap. "Almost," he says, and what the fuck – what the fuck more could he want? "I want to see."

_Oh_.

Gentle hands tug at Abbacchio's hair, coaxing him away from the spot he's thinking of marking in earnest until they're properly face-to-face again. Black lipstick is thoroughly smeared over Buccellati's mouth. An absolute mess of it. A path of dark kiss marks are across his cheek.

Abbacchio probably doesn't look much better. Lust-blown blue eyes scan his face, settling on his mouth.

He's…admiring the mess he made, apparently. And he leans in close for another chaste kiss.

It's got Abbacchio trying to follow for more, but Buccellati's palm on his cheek stops him. From there, careful fingers brushes white hair back behind Abbacchio's ear and out of the way.

"Thank you for the kisses," Buccellati says, voice all soft as he licks his lips and wraps his arms around Abbacchio's shoulders. God.

Abbacchio gives a halfhearted snort, hands settling on Buccellati's waist. "Don't thank me for fucking up your face," he grouches – but it's not like it's a _bad_ look…

"I asked you to," Buccellati reminds him, "and I like it."

"Holy shit." Abbacchio's face is officially way too hot. "Don't just _say_ that."

Buccellati _smiles_. He smiles! Then drops a kiss onto Abbacchio's cheek, probably leaving another mark. "And I didn't even ask you to kiss my neck."

"_Please_ shut up." If he doesn't, Abbacchio is going to combust.

Or melt. Which is what he ends up doing when a few puffs of laughter escape Buccellati. That doesn't count as shutting up. Abbacchio shows his irritation by taking his turn at kissing Buccellati's cheek. The unmarked one, this time. That'll show him…

The door to the restaurant chimes open, shattering the peace and hauling Abbacchio back down to the present – to the reality of where they are. He _forgot_.

The general clamor of the rest of their team is loud and getting progressively closer.

"Fuck," Buccellati mutters.

"_Fuck_," Abbacchio agrees.

* * *

**A/N:** This is actually the third rewrite of a fic that I first wrote five years ago. It was originally a lot longer, and from Bruno's POV, but I couldn't get it to a place where I was happy with it until I brought in the heavy machinery, chopped off the entire beginning, swapped to good ol' Abbacchio's POV, etc... So now here it is. In the light of day at last,

Thanks for reading! :")


	7. Late

**A/N:** Day 7: Late

Domestic, sappy fluff,

* * *

It's caught between early in the morning and very late at night by the time Bruno stumbles home.

He fishes around in his pockets, on the hunt for his house key before he remembers that he didn't bring it with him in the first place. Not a problem. Sticky Fingers lets him in – but gives up halfway, so Bruno trips on his way through, foot getting caught in a disappearing zipper. He just barely makes it inside.

Exhausted right down to his stand, huh? Late nights don't suit him anymore, since he left his position as capo. This quiet life by the sea is too relaxing; doesn't keep him on his toes the same way, without the stress to push him on. There's much less adrenaline to keep him standing when everything else depletes.

Last year an all-nighter would be par for the course. Bruno would square his shoulders and keep on keeping on because he had no other choice.

Now, he's tottering into their cozy beach shack, kicking off his shoes wherever and aiming for as direct of a path to the bedroom as he can manage.

The stairs are to his left, and they'd be altogether unappealing if it weren't for the comfort that waited at the top, but…

To his right, there's the living room. Someone left a light on in there, and small though it is, it's spilling into the front hall. Some sense of responsibility tied to the electric bill carries Bruno's tired feet to the living room, seeking out that light so he can shut it off.

What he finds, though, stops him in his tracks and sends his heart flooding with warmth.

Leone is asleep. Slumped on the couch, curled up near the lamp. Book on the floor as evidence that he _tried_ to wait up by reading, but didn't quite manage it.

A soft smile falls easy onto Bruno's face, and he wanders into the room proper. If Leone stays like this, with his long frame scrunched up and head tipped to the side, he's sure to wake up sore; it might already be too late to spare him from that, thanks to Bruno coming home _hours_ later than he meant to.

Still, Bruno pauses in front of his husband. Leone looks so _relaxed_ when he's asleep. That perpetual furrow in his brows eases away, and the harsh set of his mouth softens alongside the sharp lines of his face…

It's almost a shame to disturb him, but Bruno would rather he be comfortable in bed, and so. He tiptoes around behind the couch.

Bending over Leone, Bruno rubs his hands down the soft, black fabric of Leone's t-shirt, wrapping him in the closest thing to a hug that's achievable from this angle. He presses a kiss to Leone's temple, and murmurs, "Wake up, my love."

Leone makes an altogether charming noise, layered with grump at being woken up. The furrow between his brow returns, and he grumbles something incoherent.

Bruno kisses him, again. "What was that?"

All Leone offers is a grunt, his hands reaching blindly back to grab at Bruno. They catch in Bruno's hair as arms wrap awkward around him and tug until he's bent even further over Leone's shoulders, into a better position for Leone to clumsily mouth at his cheek.

It's supposed to be a kiss, Bruno thinks.

"Said you're late," Leone mumbles out, only a little bit more intelligible this time.

"Sorry." Bruno nuzzles into Leone as those arms clutch him close. This is why he came from behind – if he were around front right now, Leone would drag him in and down and they'd both be doomed to a night of uncomfortable couch sleep. Because if Bruno lies warm and cuddled with Leone _anywhere_, right now, he'll be down for the count. "We lost track of time."

"Fucking Giorno," is Leone's next sleepy mutter, muffled by Bruno's skin. He seems to be trying to merge his face into Bruno's neck, now.

And Bruno is smiling again – or maybe he never stopped – because Leone is so beautifully typical and Bruno is endlessly weak anymore. Fond warmth runs him through. "He gave you tomorrow off, when he realized how late our meeting ran."

"He's the boss, shouldn't need you to hold his hand." Or at least, that's what Bruno thinks Leone just said. It comes out as a series of consonants slurred together and punctuated by a yawn.

"I'm happy to offer advice." Reclaiming his arms, Bruno pulls away from Leone some so he can catch those eyes as they flutter open. "And you know I can't keep my nose out of things."

"You're retired," Leone says, frowning. His grumpy act is rendered transparent when he couples it with a playful tug to Bruno's hair, but he doesn't seem to care.

Bruno drops a kiss to the top of Leone's head in retaliation. "But you're not."

There's more under-the-breath grumbling from Leone. Something about worrywarts or meddling husbands or thoughtful assholes, or all of the above. He's always so grouchy when he first wakes up, but tonight it settles the warmth in Bruno's chest to a soft, affectionate glow.

Hands coming to rest on Leone's shoulders, Bruno squeezes inward, kneading his way toward a neck that's probably already sore.

That's all it takes for Leone's complaints to rumble off to a quiet groan. He melts back into the couch, his body goes lax, and his eyes fall shut all over again as he leans into Bruno's touch.

"Come on," Bruno murmurs to white hair as he presses another kiss to it. "Let's go to bed."

More grumbling ensues as Leone does his level best to go right back to sleep where he is. Pressed insistently into the couch cushions with his eyes firmly closed, he gives off a noise of discontent when Bruno moves away, taking his massage with him.

Around the front of the couch, (it should be safe, now) Bruno picks up one of Leone's hands. This earns him a single cracked-open eye. "Come on," he urges, giving a gentle tug to that hand. "You'll be more comfortable upstairs."

Wordlessly, Leone offers his other hand. Cooperating, at least.

With a shake of his head and that still-small grin, Bruno takes hold of this hand too. Using the grip he has on both, he helps haul Leone to his feet –

And is immediately wrapped in a tight hug, Leone falling to lean against him. Strong arms squeeze and lift Bruno off of the ground some, so Leone can carry him a few steps toward the stairs. It's impossibly sweet, and has Bruno laughing, but:

"The light, Leone."

Dropping Bruno, Leone spares a second to flash a scowl at him before he stomps across the room to turn off the lamp. Then he stomps back (grumbling to himself all the while), grabs Bruno's hand, and guides him up to bed.

Bruno _still_ can't wipe the tired grin off of his face.

It's nice, how easy it is to keep a smile these days.

* * *

**A/N:** (Apologies that it's a little later than usual, I had a busy morning)

Thanks for reading!


	8. Tattoo

**A/N:** Day 8: Tattoo

* * *

"Can you do me a favor?" Buccellati asks, standing there with his hair-still-wet and his shirt-still off.

…Sharing a hotel room with him was a _mistake_. Between the domestic bathroom sharing and the cramped proximity and the _Buccellati gently waking Abbacchio to ask what he wants for breakfast_…

At least they each have their own bed. Abbacchio doesn't know what he would've done if there had only been one, last night. Died, probably.

There _is_ only one bathroom, though. Which circles him back around to the domestic bathroom sharing thing, and the way that Buccellati had beckoned Abbacchio in soon after showering, citing that the space is big enough for both of them to get ready in together.

And it. It _is_, but Abbacchio would be able to focus a lot better on fixing his hair and putting on his makeup if Buccellati would _get fully dressed_.

It's alright, if Abbacchio stares at his own reflection and nothing else. It was fine, when Buccellati left the bathroom to grab something form his zipper-laden suitcase.

But _now_…

Now Abbacchio is being directly addressed.

Speaking of. He owes Buccellati a response. Or maybe some eye contact. He hauls his gaze up from the swirling lines of ink on tanned skin in the nick of time, right when dark eyebrows are starting to twitch into frown territory.

"What is it?"

"This needs ointment," Buccellati explains, gesturing to the fresh portions of his tattoo, "but I can't see what I'm doing on the back very well." He tucks his hair behind his ear, and then untucks it. "Do you mind…?"

Unless Abbacchio is imagining things, Buccellati's cheeks are going a bit pink. Must be the leftover steam from his shower. Because that's the reason that Abbacchio is feeling a little flushed, personally. It definitely doesn't have anything to do with the prospect of. Touching Buccellati's skin.

…Now Abbacchio is staring again. Fantastic. He snaps out of it, and sets his eyeliner aside for the time being. "No – no, I don't mind."

Buccellati's expression eases into a not-quite-smile, and Abbacchio bows his head, hiding behind his hair to wash his hands. Prolonged exposure to that not-quite-smile is dangerous to his health.

By the time he's done thoroughly drying his hands, Buccellati is already at work.

A glass jar of some fancy looking goop is open on the counter in front of them, and Buccellati dips into it with a careful fingertip. He smooths a thin layer over the freshest lines of his tattoo, starting at the bottom – low on his stomach – and tracing the path upward.

The lacey black pattern was expanded a couple days ago. Now, it covers more than just Buccellati's ribcage and chest; the swirling black lines extend over his abdomen and creep toward his neck, and the whole design wraps around the entirety of his back.

It's a beautiful piece, and the addition has increased Abbacchio's gawking tenfold. If the tattoo was nice before (and oh, it was _more_ than nice), it's a masterpiece now. One that Abbacchio would kill to brush his palms over, or run his mouth along, or _scratch_ –

Shit.

Fuck.

He has _permission_ to touch it, the tattoo. Because he's been assigned a simple task.

A simple task that he is already failing, by virtue of not doing it.

Getting on with it before he chickens out and flees the hotel without mascara on or luggage in hand, Abbacchio dips a finger into the jar of thick ointment.

"Not too much," Buccellati instructs. His attention is focused, and he's busy around front, still, making sure each line is coated.

Abbacchio nods, because opening his mouth to speak is a bad idea, and moves around behind Buccellati. Time to survey the task in front of him properly while trying not to get swept away by the sheer existence of Buccellati.

All of the neat, inked artwork is a captivating contrast on the tan canvas of Buccellati's skin. The new portions of the tattoo are a little darker than the older lines, positioned perfectly so they'll blend right in once they're healed, and right, yeah, that's too much staring.

Tentative and slow, Abbacchio reaches out.

Then he pulls back, and goes higher. He'll start at the top, because touching Buccellati's lower back right off the bat makes Abbacchio's stomach feel like it's in a blender.

This, here, is bad enough. Warm, smooth skin is almost imperceptibly raised in places, thanks to the fresh needlework, and Abbacchio is as gentle as possible as he traces his fingertips over it. His heart is thudding heavy in his chest all the while, which isn't helping – and Buccellati shivers at his initial touch, which is helping even _less_.

Speaking of Buccellati, Abbacchio sneaks a glance in the mirror and catches sight of an expert hand rubbing ointment over the lines on his chest, now.

Hand stalled out because he's fucking staring (_again!_), Abbacchio refocuses.

…

Oh, _hell_, he wants to kiss the back of Buccellati's neck so bad.

It only gets worse when Buccellati tilts his head to get a better view of the side of his tattoo and apply ointment there. Because his hair falls away from the his nape and there are goosebumps there and –

It's nothing. Doesn't mean anything. It's a natural reaction to the chill of the air, and the ointment, and light touches to sensitive skin.

Abbacchio pulls his hand back, and reaches around Buccellati to gather more ointment onto his fingers. Keeping his mind from running in overexcited circles is impossible, and his heart has moved to his throat now, but at least he manages to finish this top portion without incident.

Lower back is next.

Haha! Fantastic.

There is no way that Abbacchio will survive.

But Buccellati _asked for help_, dammit, and the amount of times he's done that in situations that _aren't_ work-related, Abbacchio can count on one hand. So he steps up, does his best to accept the heavier-than-it-should-be burden of applying fancy moisturizer to a healing tattoo.

His fingertips meet the skin just above Buccellati's waistband – and – and Buccellati (finished with his half of the work) bends forward, leaning on the counter to grant better access.

That's…helpful of him. It is in no way hindering Abbacchio's ability to focus on this simple task.

It's a wonder his hand isn't shaking, as his fingers follow the curve of Buccellati's back, tracing the tattoo. As it is, he's swallowing down his heart, which is now acting on its own to try and climb out of his throat and spill all over the floor.

Ah, wait, maybe his hand _is_ shaking? Whatever the case, Abbacchio tries to be gentle, but more goosebumps erupt on the back of Buccellati's neck, and he lets out a quiet sigh, and Abbacchio can't take much more of this.

He finishes quick and careful as he can, because he doesn't want to hurt Buccellati, or screw up the expensive, beautiful line work, but this is overwhelming in the worst (best) way.

Once he's done, though, neither of them move. They just stay here, like this, for a while, with Buccellati only shifting to stand back up straight.

Abbacchio has no reason to linger this close.

He needs to put his mascara on. Lipstick, too.

They've got an entire day to be getting on with. There _really_ isn't time for Abbacchio to loiter here and breathe in Buccellati's scent (hotel shampoo, clean, freshly-inked skin, and that soft _something_ that always accompanies Buccellati) all day.

Still. It's not like Buccellati moves, either. Just stands with his head bowed and his ears going red, one hand brushing over his tattoo…

The horrible desire to reach out and touch him again hits like a freight train, so sudden and ferocious that Abbacchio's fingers twitch with it and he takes a half-step forward. The more Buccellati curls in on himself, the worse it gets, but Abbacchio holds fast. Keeps his distance.

"…Thank you," Buccellati says eventually, screwing the lid back onto the jar of ointment. He washes his hands and hurries out of the bathroom.

All of the tension drains from the room with him, leaving Abbacchio's stomach hollow and weightless all at once. His heart is still pounding, but his breath comes easier, even as he deflates.

He stares at Buccellati's retreating, tattooed back until it's out of sight, and hates himself for wanting to reach after something so unattainable.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	9. Opera

**A/N:** Day 9: Opera

More slice of life but it's an AU this time-

* * *

Bruno has been living in his new home for a month and a half, and in that time, he's learned a few key details: whoever installed the shower fixtures somehow swapped the hot and cold labels around, most of the windows don't stay open without something propping them that way, the kitchen floor is a nightmare to traverse in socks…

And his downstairs neighbor really, _really_ likes opera music.

_Loud_ opera music.

Played at any and all hours of the day.

Maybe Bruno is being unfair. It's only happened…this would be the fourth time, since he moved into the duplex – but it really is grating. Especially today, when he's trying to relax on his day off after a hellish sort of work week.

Sitting curled up in the window seat with a cup of coffee loses some of its calming ambience with intense opera music playing in the background, coming from beneath the floor like some kind of bizarre, mismatched soundtrack to his life.

He's let it slide the past three times, but enough is enough.

So he abandons his coffee on the nearest flat surface, toes on some shoes, and heads down the outside stairs. A short path takes him to the front door of the downstairs apartment, and he lifts a hand to knock.

…

Then lifts that same hand again to _pound_. The music is even louder, from here – it's a wonder no one else on the block has complained (though he supposes the neighbor's houses aren't _too_ close by).

After a few deafening seconds, the door is wrenched open, and Bruno comes face-to-face with the culprit.

Turns out, it's a man so unfairly attractive that Bruno almost takes an entire step backwards in shock. Even the ever-louder opera music fades out in the face of this beautiful man scowling in the morning sunshine.

…He'd be more beautiful if he wasn't scowling, of course, but somehow the expression suits his face.

"Who the hell are you?"

Right. Loud music. Complaint.

Bruno came here for a reason, and it wasn't to drown in (seething) golden eyes, or get lost in the fall of long white hair over strong shoulders. It also _definitely_ wasn't to watch shiny black lips form _rude_ words, and so:

"I'm Bruno Buccellati, your upstairs neighbor."

Handsome, rude man only frowns harder. Which shouldn't be physically possible, but is kind of impressive. "No one's lived upstairs in over a year."

"…I moved in almost two months ago." Bruno made _several_ trips, even. Unloading the small, rented truck. Lugging furniture upstairs. It was quite a racket, he thought, and he's been doing his best to be an unobtrusive neighbor since. Unlike _some_ people.

"Fuck." This fact confuses the attractive downstairs stranger, apparently. That scowl of his eases off, just a little. "You're serious?"

"Yes…?"

Now his neighbor frowns off into the distance at nothing in particular. Bruno waits for a handful of seconds while he does, watching a series of unreadable expressions flicker across the man's handsome face.

"I was wondering if you could turn your music down," Bruno bites the bullet at last, since it seems like there's no response incoming anytime soon.

The man returns to himself at last, blinking wide eyes at Bruno for a second before he answers. "Yeah. Sure – I'm getting ready to go out, anyway."

Then he shuts the door.

Before Bruno can even thank him. His mouth is still open on the word, even! Closing it, he frowns to himself as he climbs the stairs back to his apartment.

True to his neighbor's word, the music shuts off mere minutes after Bruno is back in his window seat. From here, he watches a white head of hair in full black attire duck into an equally black car and drive away.

…The man never even introduced himself.

x

Leone Abbacchio.

Bruno learns this name thanks to the junk mail accidentally dropped in his letterbox instead of the downstairs one. He'd put it where it belonged, nosed through Abbacchio's box to make sure none of his own mail was misplaced, and then went on his way.

With the name Leone Abbacchio running a loop in his head.

Not like he'll forget it any time soon, being as it's the name that's attached to that tragically gorgeous man with zero manners and a love of opera that Bruno does not share, and will _never_ share if Abbacchio keeps playing that wretched symphony at _four in the morning!_

Irritation was already festering, thanks to a late workday followed by a half-asleep accidental cold shower. Now, after nowhere near enough rest and a rude awakening, Bruno is grinding his teeth as he shoves his feet into his slippers and stomps downstairs.

Pounding on the door comes easier, tonight (this morning?), and Abbacchio answers faster.

"What?" he snaps, an impressive snarl in place – and then he freezes. His mouth stays in a tight line, brows furrowed, but his eyes go wide when they land on Bruno.

"Can you _please _–"

Abbacchio turns, disappears inside, and after a moment the volume of the opera drops dramatically. Enough that Bruno can hear himself breathe a sigh of relief.

"Sorry," Abbacchio grumbles, as soon as he's back at the door. "I didn't realize you were…fuck, of course you're home." His voice goes softer with each word, talking to himself more than he is to Bruno, probably. "Normal people are fucking sleeping right now…god…"

And Bruno is sure that he himself doesn't make the prettiest picture – rushed down here in his pajamas after rolling out of bed too early – but Abbacchio looks _awful_.

Still handsome, of course, but he doesn't have any of the put-together class of their first meeting. No makeup, bags under his eyes, tangled hair pulled into a messy ponytail…his skin is too pale, in the stark moonlight.

The irritation in Bruno's system is evaporating at the sight, and he can't help the habitual "Are you alright?" that falls out of his mouth.

Abbacchio takes a deep breath, huffing out a snappish, "I'm fine."

Bruno doesn't buy that, but it isn't his place to overstep. They've only spoken twice, after all, and not for very long or about anything noteworthy. They barely count as acquaintances, let alone friends – and besides, he doesn't have the energy to pry or argue. So for now, he'll leave it be.

"Thanks for turning your music down."

"Yeah," Abbacchio grunts. "Sorry."

Dismissing the apology with a shake of his head, Bruno feels his mouth twitch in what hopefully passes for something like a smile (he's been told he's too stiff). "Please try to remember that I live here."

This gets a snort from Abbacchio that Bruno hopes is amusement. "Like I could _forget_…"

That offhanded response shouldn't get Bruno's heart to lurch in his chest. But it _does_. He isn't sure whether he should be flattered or insulted by that, and apparently his heart doesn't know either. That's something to unpack in the morning – _later_ in the morning – and _not_ while standing here on Abbacchio's doorstep, minutes before sunrise.

Bruno pulls himself together as best he can. Sets the…_feelings_…aside, because now there's something like an awkward silence between them, with crickets in the background and everything. "Goodnight," is all he can say, but it does the trick.

At Abbacchio's answering nod, Bruno returns to his upstairs apartment and tries to salvage at least one more hour of sleep.

It's difficult, with his head stuffed full of Leone Abbacchio.

x

Bruno's forehead meets his desk with an unsatisfying _thunk_, and he groans into the wood.

From downstairs comes the opera. Courtesy of his infuriatingly beautiful neighbor, as usual.

Bad enough that Bruno can't get this…weird crush…off of his mind, he can't even focus when he manages to _focus_, thanks to that damn music.

He's doing his best to ignore it and keep working.

Abbacchio must have a reason – Bruno _hopes_ Abbacchio has a reason, because they've started to wave to each other when they cross paths coming or going, and he swears he even saw Abbacchio _smile_ the other day. And it's been nothing peace and quiet since that nighttime disturbance a couple weeks ago, so it's obvious that Abbacchio is trying.

Or he _has_ been trying, up until about fifteen minutes ago.

Paperwork doesn't fill itself out. Bruno's laptop, logged into his work email, is glaring at him accusingly, too. The splitting headache that he left the office early with doesn't help.

Pushing away from his desk, Bruno resigns himself to another awkward downstairs visit, where he knocks as loudly as he can without pounding.

This time, the opera goes quiet _before_ Abbacchio answers the door. He looks more put together than the other night, but his broad shoulders are slumping. "You're so damn quiet," he grouches without preamble, "I didn't know you were home."

"It's alright," Bruno says on a sigh. "You'd have no way of knowing." Loud music transgressions are easily forgiven on account of the fact that he's weak for white hair and golden eyes and cleavage of that muscular chest. (He's too worn to fight it today. Does his best to keep his gaze from lingering where it shouldn't.)

Plus, Abbacchio always turns the music down without a fuss. And that constant frown of his is lighter, today.

There's a long pause – as there always seems to be when Bruno talks to Abbacchio – wherein he can't look away from those _eyes_. He really should excuse himself and get back to work, now that the issue is resolved.

Abbacchio's voice stops him, though. "I can – you can text me."

Bruno blinks. The afternoon sun is bright enough for him to spot the pink starting to color Abbacchio's cheeks.

"That…might work," he says, ignoring the pack of butterflies let loose in his stomach at the thought. It's for _convenience's_ sake. Not getting-to-know-each-other's sake. Calm down…

"Um." Abbacchio clears his throat, and pulls a sleek, black phone from his pocket. He unlocks it and hands it to Bruno. "Here…"

Bruno's first thought is that Abbacchio really should put a case on this, because aesthetics aside, one good drop and it's all over – but his second thought is more along the lines of '_his hand touched mine and he's so warm and his nails are painted black and oh no_'.

He plugs in his number, and saves the contact under his first name, after some panicked deliberation. Then he hands the phone back, carefully.

"I'll text you," Abbacchio says, doing just that before tucking his phone away. "Then whenever you're home, you can just…"

"Text you."

Some kind of clumsy smile flashes onto Abbacchio's face, disrupting the butterflies in Buccellati's stomach. Pale cheeks are still all flushed, too, when Abbacchio promises, "I'll try to use headphones, when you're around."

So he _does_ have headphones. Bruno was always a step away from grabbing a pair, every time he saw them in some store, over the past few weeks – but again, it was never his place to overstep. Now, though, bolstered by that phone number, his mouth runs away from him, and: "_Why_ do you listen to your music so loudly, anyway?"

The smile is traded for a frown, and Buccellati's stomach sinks.

But Abbacchio doesn't send him away, or slam the door in his face. Just takes a second to respond, and when he does, it's quiet against the soft backdrop of opera music.

"It's…what I do instead of drinking, now. To clear my head."

…Oh. "I'm –"

"Don't worry about it." Another quick, wry grin.

Bruno nods, his mouth twitching in return. His heart is a nervous mess, but his head is _killing_ him, and even that little nod didn't do him any favors and maybe he should take something, because he's a little dizzy –

The next thing he knows, there are warm fingertips brushing aside his bangs, and he's eye-to-eye with solid gold that's much, _much_ closer than it was a moment ago.

"You…" Abbacchio's fingers twitch, on both hands, one of which is steadying Bruno's shoulder, the other still on his forehead. "You have a fever."

Indeed, it must be quite high, because Abbacchio pulls away as if burnt. That explains why Bruno was so out of it at work, this morning, and why he's so bleary right now. "I'll rest later." _After_ he finishes the work he brought home.

Abbacchio squints at him suspiciously, but Bruno should really be getting back upstairs, no matter how much he'd prefer to dawdle here.

"Do you want to come in?"

Bruno freezes, half-turned away. Slowly – so as to keep his balance, this time – he spins back to face Abbacchio. "What?" Surely he can't have heard right. Something like that absolutely _is_ for getting-to-know-each-other's-sake.

"I just…I'm making lunch, and you look like you need it." Another fleeting smile flits across Abbacchio's face, and if he keeps that up, Bruno's poor flustered heart is never going to calm down. "I owe you an apology for all the opera, anyway, so. If you want…if it's not weird…"

For once, Bruno doesn't let himself overthink it before answering. Just listens to the excited-nervous swarm in his stomach.

"I'd love to."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	10. Stand Swap

**A/N:** Day 10: Stand Swap

Warnings for canon-typical violence (nothing too graphically described) and gallows humor.

* * *

This must be the work of an enemy stand.

That's the only explanation that makes any sense – or, at least, it's the only explanation Buccellati's ringing head can come up with as he hits the ground hard. Moody Blues doesn't have the speed that Sticky Fingers does. Which wouldn't be a _problem_ but – Buccellati isn't used to it – he should _get up_ –

The enemy poised to attack him collapses.

Dissolves into tiny, zipped up pieces, and Buccellati pauses in scrambling to his feet to stare.

"Holy fuck." Abbacchio stands in the wake of this spectacular mess, fist still raised. Sticky Fingers hovers next to him, mirroring the pose. "How the fuck did…"

Slower and more careful, now that immediate danger has passed, Buccellati totters to standing. He's still in control of Moody Blues, which means the unfortunate pieces on the ground aren't the remains of the enemy with the stand-swapping stand.

This is _bizarre_. Moody Blues waits faithful at Buccellati's elbow, familiar yet not, settled weird in his soul. It feels _wrong_, though he isn't sure how he can _feel_ it in the first place.

Abbacchio's wide-eyed gawk at the pile of zipped apart enemy is…kind of adorable. But now _really_ isn't the time to be thinking about that.

"You hit too much, and too hard," Buccellati explains. Trying to ignore how that show of brute strength makes his stomach swoop because _now isn't the time_. "If our stands are still switched, there must be another enemy nearby – be on your guard."

Abbacchio gives a grunt of acknowledgement, still frowning at his fist and the mess it caused. "Should I…fix him?"

"Leave him." Shaking off the residual soreness of hitting the ground, Buccellati strides further into the warehouse. "They're trying to disorient us. We need to get our stands switched back." Because this isn't bad, but it's –

"Yeah, this is weird as hell," Abbacchio grumbles as he follows. "But Sticky Fingers isn't so bad."

For some reason, Buccellati fights the urge to roll his eyes at that. Of course Sticky Fingers 'isn't so bad'. He's a very practical, useful stand, thank you very much, even when wielded heavy-handedly like Abbacchio did. "Yes, he's great, that's why I want him back."

So close that he's practically stepping on Buccellati's shoes, Abbacchio snorts. "You have a problem with Moody Blues?"

"None at all, if he were –" The hairs on the back of Buccellati's neck stand on end, and he whirls around, summoning his stand to lash out –

Only for Abbacchio to beat him to the punch _again_. Quite literally.

Sticky Fingers is oddly quiet as it lets loose a series of rapid-fire hits that leave their ambusher in fewer pieces this time.

"Huh." Abbacchio toes at one of the chunks. "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

This time, Buccellati actually does roll his eyes. Even _Sticky Fingers_ seems to be enjoying himself, looks like he's almost _smiling_, the traitor, while Moody Blues lets out a mournful sort of whir. The sound sends a sad twinge through Buccellati's stomach.

"You can't zip every enemy apart, Abbacchio," he lectures as he crouches by the man's gasping head, so he can lift it by the hair. "We could use someone to question, but now he's –"

Panicked yelling too incoherent to follow interrupts Buccellati and he frowns at the enemy's head, holding it out to Abbacchio. Sticky Fingers dutifully zips the mouth shut, muffling the frenzied cries. Silence restored, Buccellati continues.

"Now he's in shock, because he has no idea why he's in pieces. We won't get anything out of him before he dies."

"I can try putting him back together," Abbacchio offers.

It's too little too late, though, because the man in pieces gasps his last.

Buccellati raises an eyebrow and drops the head. "Next time, let me." Then he stands up, turns on his heel, and continues toward the back office of the warehouse. It's the most likely hiding place among countless hiding places. They should be more careful from here on out…

"You're too slow."

_Rude_. That's not at all Buccellati's fault. "It's Moody Blues who's slow."

"Don't blame my stand!" Abbacchio picks up his pace until he's standing next to Buccellati, an impressive unimpressed scowl on his face. "Try kicking, Moody Blues likes kicking. It's faster than his punches for some reason."

And so, the second there's movement at the corner of Buccellati's eye, he summons Moody Blues to lash out with a kick. It connects, and their enemy lands flat on his back, head cracking off of the concrete floor, and he stays pinned and struggling beneath Moody Blues' foot.

Buccellati blinks. "Wow. You're right."

"Told you."

Moody Blues makes a pleased dial tone noise.

There really isn't time to dwell on how cute that is. Buccellati approaches the man on the ground, crouching just out of reach, and asks, "Who's in charge here?"

The man spits a mouthful of blood out onto the ground in answer. Very helpful.

…If Buccellati had Sticky Fingers, this would go _much_ easier. He has a million and one interrogation techniques that his stand helped him perfect, but there's no time to explain all of the finer points of them to Abbacchio.

Even if he's witnessed some before, Buccellati can't very well turn to him and say, "Please start zipping this man's legs into spirals as slowly as you can," without removing the helpful element of surprise.

So he works with what he has, settles for Moody Blues pressing a foot down harder on the man's chest.

"Where's your boss?"

The man's eyes flick over toward the office, and ah, these guys are awfully predictable. Why they're sticking to one-man ambushes, Buccellati wishes he had more time to puzzle out – these attackers are clearly fodder of some kind.

But the weird weight of Moody Blues in his chest instead of the comfortable presence of Sticky Fingers is _unsettling_, and it's shaken him into something like a hurry.

"How many of you are stand –"

A loud crack interrupts Buccellati, and the man goes limp, head lolling back.

…Whoops.

Abbacchio's snickers from behind aren't helping, and Buccellati stands back up. Straightens his suit with as much dignity as he can muster. Yes this whole situation is just _hilarious_ isn't it…

"Moody Blues pressed too hard?" Abbacchio guesses.

"Yes." If Buccellati stares too long, those speaker-like eyes almost start to look _sad_, so he disperses Moody Blues and tries not to feel guilty. "Your stand is overzealous," he says. _Much like its user_, he doesn't say.

"You're the one controlling him." There's still humor in Abbacchio's voice. It would be downright charming any other time, under any other circumstances, but right now, it grates on Buccellati's nerves. "Speaking of," Abbacchio carries on in absurdly high spirits, "why don't you just let him rewind? He can lead you right to the boss's hiding place."

"I know where they're hiding. That man kept glancing toward the office." So that's where Buccellati is headed, now, with Abbacchio following along.

"Isn't that too obvious?"

_Probably_, but: "The rest of their fight hasn't exactly been smart or strategic."

"Except for swapping our stands," Abbacchio helpfully points out, and yeah, there is that fun little detail.

Buccellati can't deny the sheer level of disorientation that brought on. Trying to ignore it or act natural about it only makes the odd presence in his soul stand out all the more. It's not the worst thing that could happen, though. At least Moody Blues has the strength to kick down the office door to reveal –

Nothing.

Buccellati stares. So much for plan A.

He could've _sworn_…there should be _something_ here…

"Why don't you let Moody Blues figure out where they went?"

Frowning, Buccellati clenches his teeth. Turns to the stand beside him. It's still hanging around. In a way, this feels like when he first got Sticky Fingers. Only this is _worse_, because Sticky Fingers was a part of him, something that Buccellati was in tune to from the get-go, whereas Moody Blues…

Is an uncooperative piece of _Abbacchio_.

"Why don't _you_ have Sticky Fingers search for secret passages?"

"That could take forever."

See? Uncooperative.

Abbacchio does have a point, though. The easier, quicker (not to mention _safer_, given how enthusiastic Sticky Fingers has gotten under Abbacchio's tutelage) route would be to have Moody Blues check the room via its replay, and indeed, if Abbacchio still had his own stand, Buccellati would ask him to do so before anything else.

"Fine." Problem is, when it comes to using Moody Blues' actual _ability_…Buccellati isn't quite sure…how to. The thought of it makes him nervous, which is the strangest part of this whole situation. Using Sticky Fingers never feels like this. "…How do you work him?"

Moody Blues makes a series of unhelpful dial tone sounds while staring into Buccellati's eyes. This is followed up by some whirring and clicking and head tilting, but not much else.

"You just do," Abbacchio supplies with a shrug, equally as unhelpful as his stand. "You're upsetting him, pressuring him like that."

Oh, so that's what this odd feeling in the pit of his stomach is. Buccellati frowns. If Moody Blues had a mouth, he imagines the stand would be frowning, too.

"It's like…rewinding a VHS tape."

"…A VHS?"

Abbacchio groans, short and frustrated. "I can't explain it," he grouches, gesturing at Moody Blues. "Just do it – stand powers are inherent."

"_My_ stand powers are," Buccellati mutters under his breath, but gets back to staring down Moody Blues anyway. The stand _does_ look upset, the longer Buccellati watches him. But no rewind starts, no matter how hard Buccellati wills it or how much he concentrates.

This is a time-sensitive thing – their enemy could be getting away –

"Arri."

Buccellati jolts a little, at the way Sticky Fingers appears out of nowhere and approaches Moody Blues. Abbacchio seems just as shocked by this turn of events, and he's the one supposedly in control of Sticky Fingers right now.

Sticky Fingers is acting on his own, though, apparently. Stops to stand right in front of Moody Blues and places his palms on either side of Moody Blues' face. The feeling is shadowed on Buccellati's own cheeks, which is. _Weird_. But not at all bad.

"Arri," Sticky Fingers says, again – softer, this time.

Some type of melodic noise that Buccellati's never heard Moody Blues make before follows in response, and his chest feels…_warm_. Calmer, despite the tension that was wound there before.

The counter on Moody Blues' forehead starts to tick backwards, and Sticky Fingers is definitely smiling this time, as he backs away and fades out.

"Jeez," Abbacchio grumbles, glaring into the corner, his cheeks pink. "Making me look bad, always so sensitive…"

* * *

**A/N:** When I saw anime Moody Blues for the first time, I was overwhelmed by the amount of phone noises it made, bc I'd always imagined it'd just sound like a VCR,

Thanks for reading!


	11. Tradition

**A/N:** Day 11: Tradition

Warning for NSFW discussion between the pre-canon squad. Nothing graphic is described, and no actual sex acts participated in by anyone are recounted in any detail, but they have a group conversation about the flavor of ejaculate.

This is borderline crack, and I apologize in advance. Just wanted to unwind and write smth stupid and funny,

* * *

"Hey," Mista says, fork and knife stilling on his plate, "since we're eating lunch –"

Narancia groans, cutting him off, and rolls his head on his shoulders in a dramatic gesture. "Not _again_."

"What – it's tradition!"

"No one likes this tradition but you."

Fugo is absolutely correct in that assumption, so much so that Abbacchio almost speaks up and vouches for him. That would draw him into the conversation, though, and so he stays steadfastly quiet. Besides, someone else will definitely –

"Yeah!" Narancia chirps, sure enough and without even bothering to swallow his latest bite first. "Let us eat in peace!"

Peace is always a toss-up with present company, but this time Abbacchio intends to stay as uninvolved as he can for as long as he can. Bows his head over his plate and sits unaffected beside Buccellati – maybe a little closer than usual, sue him – because _companionable silence_ is all he needs. So he will continue to pretend that that is all there is at this table for as long as humanly possible.

"Honestly," Mista mutters to himself, around a bite of pasta, sounding almost offended, "when _else_ are we supposed to talk about weird eating habits except for while we're eating…?"

"That only makes sense to you," Fugo mutters right back.

Narancia snickers, snorting his drink out of his nose and causing a general commotion full of squawking and under-the-table kicking that goes on for a few minutes before fortunately settling down on its own.

That lends pretty well to Abbacchio's strategy of pretending he's literally anywhere else. He'd put his headphones on and drown things out completely, but he's morbidly curious about what topic Mista's got up his sleeve today.

(…Plus, earlier, Buccellati playfully tugged said headphones off of Abbacchio's head, completing the gesture with a tiny shadow of a smile. So Abbacchio is still very much reeling from that. And he reels all over again, every time their elbows happen to brush.)

"People that like, eat come – do they actually like the way it tastes?"

Abbacchio drops his fork.

Beside him, Buccellati launches into a violent coughing fit.

"_Ew!_" Narancia shrieks, physically recoiling.

"That's disgusting, Mista," Abbacchio growls, getting involved after all while tamping down the urge to pat Buccellati's back. And. Maybe also fighting off the heat rising in his cheeks. At least he can play it off as irritation.

"We're fucking eating, here!" Fugo kicks out under the table again, and he must connect, because Mista yelps.

"It's a legitimate question!" Uncaring of danger and rubbing at his shin, Mista barrels onward. "I've heard that people collect that stuff and drink it! There's more to it than just spit or swallow."

Narancia has progressed to making gagging noises, and Abbacchio has made the choice to abandon his meal entirely in favor of…damage control? Chaperoning? Because now Fugo is holding his spoon like a weapon, and in his hands, it might as well be one.

Buccellati, for his part, has regained almost all of his composure. Still trying to eat, bless him, even with a faint flush clinging to his cheeks and ears.

This is the type of conversation topic that deserves to be dropped.

But.

If they don't humor Mista, he'll go on and _on_ with his own tangents in whatever directions he pleases. Case in point, he is now pondering: "Wonder what dictates the spit or swallow preference in the first place – does it work the same as having a favorite food?"

So Abbacchio takes one for the team, and grumbles, "It's the same as any other sexual preference. And people have fetishes."

Mista hums in acquiescence. "Sure, but the texture is terrible, y'know?"

"Ha!" One of Narancia's obnoxious fingers points at Mista from across the table. "You've sucked dick before?!"

"You haven't?" Mista counters, raising a cool eyebrow. Unaffected.

Narancia goes quiet at that, bringing his pointing finger back to tap at his own chin. He gets all lost in thought. Like he's searching his memory, wracking his brain for some recollection that may or may not exist.

Rolling his eyes, Abbacchio has the overwhelming urge to drown himself in pesto sauce.

"_Should_ I have…?" Narancia wonders aloud.

"No, Narancia," Fugo reassures, even though he's bent his spoon in half singlehandedly. "Mista forgets that his experiences aren't universal."

God. There isn't enough wine at this table. Abbacchio isn't getting paid enough for this. Later, he'll pester Buccellati for a raise, because _he's_ still sitting this one out, enjoying his dessert instead of facing the horrible, off-key music.

With a segue like that, Abbacchio is afraid that this conversation will spiral into comparisons of sexual experience – which is something Abbacchio _very much does not_ want to discuss with _anyone_, let alone these shitty kids.

So he swallows a mouthful of wine along with his pride and puts the conversation back on its original track. "You get used to the texture."

"But the flavor!" Mista, (un)fortunately, latches back on. He's picked up real steam now, gesturing with his fork, eyes wide with enthusiasm. "It's not anything to write home about, either."

"Flavor depends on the person." What else can Abbacchio do except offer his wisdom, at this point? He's made his own goddamned bed. "Some people taste better than others." He tries very, very, _very_ hard not to think about Buccellati or – heaven fucking forbid – glance in his direction.

"It has to do with diet, doesn't it?" Fugo interjects. Like this is a proper family discussion.

…Then again, they've discussed cannibalism before. So this might as well be a proper family discussion – as much as this is a proper family, anyway. Abbacchio is positive that this conversation rates worse, but at least it shouldn't end in a week's worth of jokes about eating Narancia first if food gets scarce.

"Yeah – yeah, so d'you think, people who have a thing for swallowing, like…monitor their partner's diet?"

Always asking the real questions, that Mista.

"Ah!" Eyes lighting up, Narancia finally takes the pondering finger off of his chin and holds it aloft with his realization. "So is that where the strawberry thing comes from? When people eat strawberries, and someone asks if they have plans later?"

"Where the hell do you hear that shit…?"

"Yeah," Mista confirms, plowing right over Fugo's concerns, "fruit is supposed to make you taste sweeter."

Well, they're not _wrong_. Abbacchio grunts in agreement and confirms, "It's true, fruit does help."

…

He isn't expecting that to be what gets the entire table to shut up.

Even the clink of Buccellati's spoon stalls out, and Abbacchio doesn't get what's happening until he follows the other three sets of eyes to the seat beside his own.

Buccellati sits frozen, there. Chair so close to Abbacchio's that they might as well be touching. His spoon is in the middle of dipping into a fruit parfait. He's glancing around the table. Gaze flat but ears tellingly aflame.

…Well!

Fuck.

* * *

**A/N:** I promise that actual content will return tomorrow, uh,

Thanks for reading,


	12. I Like You

**A/N:** Day 12: I Like You

Warning for brief instances of mildly-described violence.

* * *

"Abbacchio, can't you at least _try_ to get along with the others?"

There's a hint of exasperation in Buccellati's voice, and he's sitting there at the messy dinner table with a more strained expression than usual. Something about his posture almost looks tired, in that way it does when he's been overworking himself.

Abbacchio pushes down any inklings of guilt (or tries to) and frowns through it. "I do try. It's not my fault they're pieces of shit." Granted, most of the time Abbacchio can work with that, but _tonight_…

Buccellati's eyes go all imploring, if Abbacchio is reading the subtle changes in his expression right. "You don't have to be a piece of shit back."

That's not fair at all, just like the returned pang of guilt isn't fair, and neither is the fact that Abbacchio is the only one held back for a lecture in the aftermath, when he didn't even _start_ this particular argument. "Neither do they."

Buccellati heaves a heavy sigh and rests his cheek on a fist. The elbow he's got propped on the table to accomplish this lands in a spot of what's either tomato sauce or blood, but right now doesn't seem like a good time to point that out.

"This always happens, when I leave you guys alone."

No it doesn't. Abbacchio is a fantastic babysitter most of the time (even when Fugo thinks he's the one in charge). He lets the kids do whatever they want.

…If whatever they want just so happens to be attempted murder with eating utensils, who is he to intervene? The problem is when they come after _him_, breaking _his_ headphones…into _four_ pieces, which gets _Mista_ involved…and so on and so forth.

Usually things go a lot smoother than that, though.

Tonight, Abbacchio has nothing to say for himself.

"None of you have any problem cooperating under my orders, but when I'm late for dinner all hell breaks loose." This is as close as Buccellati gets to ranting, so he really _must_ be tired. He's glaring at the stack of plates – some cracked – in the center of the table as he asks, "_Why_?"

That's probably a rhetorical question, but some soft part of Abbacchio wants to alleviate Buccellati's frustration, and that soft part opens its big fat mouth and answers:

"Because I like you."

Buccellati's eyes latch onto Abbacchio's. Brilliantly blue and wider than usual –

And, yeah, _wow_, that was some weird fucking slip of the tongue Abbacchio had there wasn't it! It's soaking his cheeks in heat and setting off 'ABORT MISSION' sirens in his head.

"I mean – because, because _we_ like you," he scrambles. Clears his throat. Clenches his hands into fists and tries _not_ to shuffle in place (or run the hell away). Buccellati is still _watching_ him. "We…respect your leadership, so – it's – y'know, easier to…behave…under orders."

Or _something_ like that. God.

There's a strange, unfamiliar light in Buccellati's eyes that's doing funny things to Abbacchio's chest. Which is just as completely ridiculous as it _always_ is, but it's his own fault for thoughtlessly _blurting that shit out_ –

"In that case," Buccellati says, after a too-long pause, "I'm ordering you to get along with them."

And that's. Is that a joke? Abbacchio can't tell, and trying to puzzle it out only makes the flustered feeling in his chest worse.

Whatever the hell it is, Abbacchio does _not_ want to be ordered to get along with _anyone_ on this shitty team full of children. He'll get along with whoever he damn well pleases to get along with, and so he kicks aside the flustered feelings for now (_or tries to_; they don't really budge).

"Order _them_. They started it."

Buccellati's expression cracks, then, and the sun pokes through on an honest-to-god _smile_, and Abbacchio is left blinded with no idea what just happened when Buccellati dismisses him at last.

x

"Abbacchio! This is important – why aren't you _listening?_"

"No matter how much I like you, I'm still not going to do that, Buccellati!"

Buccellati pauses with his back pressed to Abbacchio's, right in the middle of a fight. There's no telling what kind of face he's making – but Abbacchio, for one, is scowling to himself because god-fucking-dammit he's done it _again_.

This is the fourth time in as many weeks he's let that little phrase slip since that time in the restaurant, and he hasn't meant it once.

…Well. He's _meant_ _it_ of course, but he didn't mean to _say_ it. Out _loud_. Because this isn't the kind of thing you just say, and it's definitely not the kind of thing you just say to someone like Buccellati when you're someone like Abbacchio.

These fond feelings are real, though, that much Abbacchio knows, for better or worse. And they're apparently also raring to get out just as badly as these surrounding idiots want to escape their unauthorized gambling den.

Neither should be allowed to happen, for his own personal peace of mind or Passione's.

But there go his feelings, spilling all over the floor –

And there goes one of the ringleaders with a sack of cash, so Abbacchio sprints after him (and away from his feelings). Trips the guy up and knocks him out, even though Buccellati is calling from behind with frustration laced in his tone.

"_Abbacchio_." Buccellati appears at Abbacchio's side, through the chaos of the small room – with its dim lighting and fleeing patrons and overturned tables. "This is no time to be stubborn! I need Moody Blues to find the combination for the security system so we can lock this place down." He unzips the ankles of a couple of scrambling rich people, and they hit the floor. "We can't let any of the orchestrators escape."

Abbacchio huffs as he kicks the money out of reach of any of the tripped up gamblers. "I told you, I'm not going defenseless in here." There are too many people with too much to lose trapped in too close of quarters. No idea how many stand users, if any.

"Mista will cover you," Buccellati argues, grabbing the money that Abbacchio sloppily disposed of and stashing it in one of Sticky Fingers' hidden compartments on his suit.

"Mista's busy!" The main exit won't guard _itself_, after all. Ugh, why are there so many people here? He shoves over at least two more. "We can just – "

And then Buccellati is close again, grabbing Abbacchio's wrist and hauling him in the direction of the security room.

"Fine –_ I like you_, so _I'll_ cover you, alright?!"

Now isn't the time to freeze, but Abbacchio does it anyway. Feet digging in, ground to a halt. Staring at Buccellati, because.

This can't be possible.

The whole grabbing Abbacchio's wrist thing was bad enough.

Does…Buccellati know what he just said?

Brows furrowed in irritation and mouth set in a tight line, Buccellati yanks hard on Abbacchio's arm. No, it doesn't seem like he realizes the gravity of what he just said. Thanks to the situation. Probably. "Leone," he snaps, in that same longsuffering, exasperated tone that he _always_ uses when Abbacchio won't cooperate (which is _not_ often, thanks for asking), "_please_."

"Yeah." Abbacchio swallows. The sound of his first name in that tone sure is _something_. "Yeah, alright."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	13. Pinning

**A/N:** Day 13: Pinning

More...sappy domesticity...

Wound up as the spiritual sequel to what I wrote for one of the prompts (day 15: breakfast) during last year's Februabba. I am, at my heart, a one-trick pony.

* * *

"Leone."

Pressing his nose into the patch of skin where Bruno's neck meets his shoulder, Leone breathes deep and exhales a quiet, "Mh?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am not," Leone argues, because he _isn't_.

There's nothing ridiculous about wanting to sleep in with Bruno, now that they finally have the chance to. There's nothing ridiculous about the measures that Leone has taken to prevent any crafty escapes, either.

No matter what Bruno says, or how much he squirms

"Yes, you _are_," Bruno huffs; he's a wiggly, uncooperative body pillow – he almost reminds Leone of the waterbeds in that one shady hotel that they got kicked out of because Narancia's pocket knife caused a leak. Only, Bruno has a lot more bones and muscles than a waterbed, which he is using to try and push Leone off of himself (albeit halfheartedly, Leone suspects).

In retaliation, Leone slackens his body and becomes as much of a deadweight as he possibly can. He's got the advantage of being bigger than Bruno by just enough to be able to cover him completely.

Bruno gives up on pushing in favor of trying to slip out, and then gives up on that in favor of reaching both hands around to yank on the back of Leone's shirt. "I need to go and check my phone," he says, which is bullshit.

"You don't _need_ to do anything." Least of all check his damn phone that went off twice in the span of five minutes. It can't be anything important (and even if it is, fuck that).

It's clear that Leone has to up the ante, if he wants to keep Bruno in place. The amount of control he has over his hands is worrying, and Leone is ever-wary of Sticky Fingers…no matter how nice it is, to feel Bruno's arms around himself like this.

One of those warm palms goes flat, rubbing up and down Leone's back – and, dammit, Bruno isn't helping his case any. "Leone," he murmurs, his lips brushing Leone's temple.

If Bruno is trying to _flatter_ or…or _flirt_ his way out of this, it's not going to work. Leone will double down and fall asleep, if he keeps that shit up. Drawing shapes on Leone's back with his fingertips and pressing feathery kisses wherever he can reach…

As wonderful as all of this feels, it's more than likely a ploy to get Leone to let his guard down.

Hah, that's not going to happen. Hugging Bruno ought to put a spanner in the works of whatever escape he's plotting, and so Leone winds his arms around the body beneath his own as best he can. Shoves his hands between Bruno and the mattress and shifts himself higher for a better grip as he pins Bruno's arms in at his sides.

"It's our day off," Leone reminds his captive, squeezing him close. Even his legs are overlaying Bruno's, and he bends them for better leverage when those knees start to shift. "You're sleeping in." From his new vantage point, he's able to kiss Bruno's temple and nuzzle into dark hair, so he does just that.

"Hm," comes a noncommittal hum from Bruno, followed by another excuse. "I can't breathe."

"Yes you can," Leone murmurs between a trio of kisses. He knows for an absolute fact that Bruno can breathe, because he can feel the way that his stomach expands with each breath. The two of them are rising and falling in tandem, and it is romantic as all hell.

"No I can't," Bruno continues to lie, which takes _breathing _to do, mind you. "You're heavy."

"Mhm." That's why this works so well, and Leone is able to maintain the upper hand here.

With a deep sigh – hah, see: more breathing! – Bruno starts to relax. As he does, he becomes the most comfortable pillow in the history of _ever_, and Leone sinks into his warmth and kisses his face and never wants anything else as long as he lives. _God_ is that too much to ask?

Fingers poke at Leone's stomach, and Bruno puts a small crack in the moment by asking, "What happens if I have to pee?"

Leone frowns. Secures his hold on Bruno. "I carry you to the bathroom and then carry you right back."

"In that case, I have to pee."

Lifting up just a _bit_ – only far enough so that he can look Bruno in the eye and showcase his disappointment – Leone is not at all surprised to find an amused sort of shine to Bruno's eyes, coupled with a soft upturn at the corners of his mouth.

"Nice try," Leone grumbles to those sparkling blue pools that catch the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, "but like hell am I gonna fall for that."

Bruno's lashes flutter in a way that makes Leone's insides threaten to go all mushy. "But, Leone –"

"You'll escape and answer your phone." Shoving his face into the soft spill of Bruno's hair is all that Leone can do to keep from drowning in those eyes. In that _smile_. They present a unique danger, at this proximity, and Leone's heart is already lovesick enough, thanks.

Ah. Fuck. Bruno is _nuzzling_ at him, now. "Your offer to carry me was sweet," he says, not at all acknowledging his own diabolical plot. His legs shift around, and Leone's guard falls just enough that Bruno can reposition their thighs until they're staggered together. Two of his squeeze one of Leone's, and, shit, what does he think he's _doing_…

"Don't mention it," Leone murmurs, still buried in Bruno. He doesn't even bother to try and reclaim his thigh. It's comfortable where it is.

There's an unmistakable alert tone from across the room. Bruno's phone getting another text message.

"…Leone."

"No." Leone holds Bruno in a vice. "This is for your own good."

A good-natured, beyond-soft laugh comes from Bruno. Given how tangled they are, Leone can feel it echo in his own chest, and it's followed immediately by an influx of fluttering, flustered warmth when Bruno says, "I don't _want_ to leave our bed, you know."

_Our bed_, he says.

_Don't want to leave_, he says.

The answer's quite simple, in that case: "Don't, then."

Warm hands maneuver the confines of Leone's arms, finding their way to his waist. They settle there, Bruno's thumbs rubbing circles into Leone's skin through the fabric of his shirt. "It might be something important."

"Not on our day off it's not."

A quiet sigh lifts Bruno's chest beneath Leone's, so he clings _harder_ –

"I'm sorry, Leone."

There's the sound of a zipper, and the _feel_ of a zipper as Leone's shoulder starts to go all loose, and, well shit, seems like Bruno's taking the only escape route he can. Against Sticky Fingers, Leone is powerless, and Bruno climbs right through him and out of bed. Where he makes an immediate beeline for that goddamned _phone_.

As soon as Leone is zippered back together, he reaches after Bruno in a futile attempt to stop him – gets halfway off the bed, even – but Bruno is faster and has the advantage of not previously being zipped apart. Ugh.

Once he has his precious phone, Bruno comes back. He's frowning at whatever the notifications are, but his expression softens at Leone's pout (yeah, he admits it, this is a pout). As well it fucking _should_.

"Next time," Bruno says, bending over Leone to administer a consolation kiss to his forehead, "I promise we can sleep in."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	14. Games

**A/N:** Day 14: Games

Another silly, domestic one,

Inspired by a conversation I had with Anticia a little while back! So, thank you. :'D

* * *

Abbacchio is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, enjoying some hard-won peace and quiet, when Buccellati strolls in.

Nothing odd there. Brewing coffee in this house tends to draw a crowd, so really, Abbacchio shouldn't have expected to be alone for long – and at least it's just Buccellati. He's the only one here who won't make Abbacchio's headache worse or disturb the peace in any way. (He'll enhance the peace, if anything.)

…Plus, he probably has paperwork or something to be getting back to. So it's not like he'll stick around, once he's got his coffee.

Except. He isn't going for the coffee pot.

Abbacchio lowers his mug back to the table, wraps both hands around the warmth of it, and watches as Buccellati walks the length of the kitchen. All the way to the cupboard at the far end, where the snacks are kept.

Most everything in there belongs to the kids – unless Buccellati moved his secret stash of sweets to a new, more obvious location. Abbacchio wouldn't put that past him. The zipper noise seems to confirm this, but when that zipper closes and Buccellati steps back from the cabinet, he isn't holding a secretly stashed sweet.

Instead, he's got a small handful of chips.

And they aren't just _any_ chips, either. These chips, Abbacchio recognizes as belonging to Narancia, because a couple of weeks ago, Abbacchio had to diffuse a fistfight over their ownership and who had the rights to be eating them. Many chips flew. He knows them well, even from a distance.

They're some kind of spicy flavor, so hot you can't taste anything but your tongue burning off. (And they don't feel much better if you get their residue in your eye courtesy of flailing, fighting teenagers.)

Buccellati is popping them into his mouth like candy as he casually peruses the other shelves.

"Aren't those Narancia's?" Abbacchio finds it in himself to ask.

In answer, Buccellati gives an affirmative hum. While munching on the last of his stolen chips.

Abbacchio narrows his eyes. "The ones he bought last night, that he hasn't opened yet?"

There's a certain _something_ in Buccellati's expression. A different twitch to his lips, arch to his brow, and shine in his eye as he glances sideways at Abbacchio. It catches Abbacchio _thoroughly_ off guard – instantly disarms him of any lingering foul mood and replaces it with curiosity.

Buccellati doesn't disappoint. Looks like Fugo's unopened expensive-yet-disgusting black licorice is his next victim, and he plucks it out of the cupboard. Holds it up for Abbacchio to see as Sticky Fingers zips a hole in the bag, and Buccellati takes a few pieces before resealing it and placing it back exactly where it was. Like he was never there.

A sharp huff of laughter forces its way up Abbacchio's throat, and he gives a crooked smirk. "You little shit."

"I just wanted a couple pieces," is Buccellati's excuse, "and a few chips." He looks quite pleased with himself, and quite content with his pilfered snacks. It's _adorable_, but at the same time:

"You're on your own if you get caught."

"They won't get mad at _me_," Buccellati says, fully confident in that statement. And he's _right_, damn him. It must be nice to have so much immunity that you can even dip into Trish's fancy chocolates without fear of repercussion. "But I won't get caught."

Of course he won't. Who the hell would suspect someone – especially _Buccellati_ – of stealing food right from the closed package?

Though, if he _were_ to get caught, now would be the time, because he's got a mouthful of chocolate, and there are approaching footsteps that most definitely belong to one of the kids.

Buccellati remains composed as ever. He places the chocolates back on the shelf, closes the cupboard, and makes polite, quiet haste to Abbacchio's side. Leans against his chair. Acts casual…with a hand on Abbacchio's shoulder…body pressed against his…pretending to poke around at the newspaper that someone left here earlier…

Narancia practically skips into the kitchen, way too energetic for – fuck, what time is it? – this late in the afternoon. "Hi Buccellati, Abbacchio!"

"Hey," Abbacchio grunts, doing his damndest not to side-eye Buccellati. Maybe he should fake reading the paper, too, but he's watching Narancia make a beeline for the snack cabinet instead.

Sure enough, Narancia goes right for that bag of chips. Plucks them out, then hefts them in his hand with a pout and whines to himself, "I swear, they keep putting less and less in these – it's a rip off…"

Abbacchio has to bite his tongue to keep from _laughing_.

Especially so when Buccellati gives a genuine sympathetic hum. Which is all that crafty bastard can manage, being as his mouth is full of stolen chocolate that was probably eaten to chase away the burn from those horrible chips.

At this rate, Abbacchio really will laugh. He coughs to disguise the one that escapes.

Noticing absolutely nothing amiss, Narancia grabs a few drinks from the fridge (ah, looks like it'll be civilized sharing today, instead of fistfights) and carries on his merry way out of the kitchen. Back upstairs, or to the living room, or wherever the hell he came from.

Only when the coast is clear does Abbacchio let loose a grin, and maybe a snicker or two. "What was that about not getting caught?"

That playful little sparkle is still in Buccellati's eyes as he sucks on the remains of the melting chocolate. He leans in close, then, and Abbacchio has about three seconds to feel overwhelmed before Buccellati is _kissing_ him. Tasting mostly like chocolate, but with other lingering flavors that don't blend well – but Abbacchio can't really care, weak as ever to the feel of those lips against his own.

He's got even _less_ room to complain when Buccellati tilts his head and _deepens_ it – sharing the chocolate – which is – holy _fuck_.

By the time they separate, Abbacchio is breathless, and Buccellati's mouth is stained with lipstick.

Abbacchio can't help it. Steals one last quick kiss. Warm and spicy-sweet.

"Now you're my accomplice," Buccellati announces, murmuring right into Abbacchio's mouth. He pulls back with a tiny, charming smile in place. It's made all the more heart-stopping by the _lipstick_.

"Told you you're on your own for this one," Abbacchio attempts to gripe, with the taste of Buccellati mixed with incriminating evidence on his tongue. "I'm uninvolved."

Buccellati presses his lips to the top of Abbacchio's head, and pats his shoulder in a placating sort of way. "You ate the chocolate, too," he reminds, which is an entire lie and a completely fabricated setup – but he's walking away with a cup of coffee before Abbacchio can argue.

God, that man…Abbacchio will not take part in this little game of his. If he _does_, he's got a sinking feeling that he'll wind up as a convenient scapegoat someday. One that the kids won't be as kind to as they would Buccellati.

…Though, that's some damn good chocolate. He might make an exception for that, if Buccellati ever offers to share again. Especially the way he did today.

Oh well. For now, Abbacchio is left to his peace and quiet. The first order of business should be cleaning up his face, because if Buccellati has lipstick everywhere, then Abbacchio _definitely_ does. He'll take his coffee up with him, and –

His hand closes on empty air.

The coffee mug that had just been on the table is gone.

…

Buccellati walked away with a coffee, come to think of it.

Pushing to his feet and unable to banish a sappy smile, Abbacchio grumbles the whole way to the coffee machine and the whole way through fixing another cup of coffee – just the way _Buccellati_ likes it, this time.

* * *

**A/N:** Happy Valentine's Day, and thanks for reading!


	15. Fashion

**A/N:** Day 15: Fashion

Warning for steamy content. There's a heavy make-out session framed as a precursor to sex, but nothing too explicit (did my best to keep it rated a strong T). Clothes come off but there's no full nudity.

* * *

Formal wear looks _good_ on Abbacchio.

This is a fact that Buccellati is familiar with, thanks to the few scattered instances when Abbacchio's dolled himself up for certain gang-related reasons. Meetings with higher ups, dinners with 'esteemed' business partners, an undercover job or two…

Tonight, though, there's a difference. A detail that makes Buccellati's stomach flood with _heat_ and _emotion_ at the mere thought.

Because _tonight_ Abbacchio is wearing formal attire _for him_.

Abbacchio bought a new outfit. Made dinner reservations at a restaurant that's classy (but not so classy as to be out of Buccellati's comfort zone because he's a _sweetheart_ like that). Paid for the meal, splurged for dessert, and then tangled his hand in Buccellati's to lead them both home.

And _now_.

Now Buccellati is in Abbacchio's pristine bedroom, pinning him to the door and kissing him breathless, while Abbacchio clings to him in turn. His arms wind tight around Buccellati's waist, his eager hands rub up and down Buccellati's back, stopping to fist in the fabric of his suit jacket as Abbacchio pulls him closer and _closer_.

Slick, lipstick-coated lips glide firm over Buccellati's, smearing dark purple between them – his mouth is melting under such thorough attention. Burying his hands in white hair, he uses his grip to better angle Abbacchio's head, and his efforts earn him a quiet groan, along with Abbacchio's _tongue_ pushing in, rolling around his own.

Buccellati swallows more of those soft, pleased noises as they spill into his mouth via Abbacchio's. Each of his senses is overwhelmed with _Leone_ and a closeness that Buccellati willingly freefalls into as deep as he can.

The short puffs of air he's stealing through his nose aren't enough, unfortunately, and he scratches at Abbacchio's scalp, tugs on fistfuls of hair until their kiss parts with a sloppy, wet noise.

Now he can try to catch his breath. It's not easy, when it keeps mingling with Abbacchio's.

It's not easy, when just the _sight_ of Abbacchio is enough to take Buccellati's breath away. He's so _beautiful_.

Dark lipstick is a mess across Abbacchio's shiny, kiss-swollen mouth, and his cheeks are flushed red, the purple-gold of his eyes engulfed in blown-wide pupils – and he stares right back, eyes meeting Buccellati's. Buccellati can feel his _heartbeat_, the way his chest rises and falls where they're pressed together. Warm and close and _real_.

This right here – that he's able to _be_ with Abbacchio – is by far his favorite gift of the day.

He drops a lingering kiss to Abbacchio's chin. The mark it leaves behind is faint, with the uneven patchy quality of stolen lipstick. But it's _there_, and it sends a thrill down Buccellati's spine.

So he leaves _more_ of those marks; kisses that follow the sharp line of Abbacchio's jaw, continuing toward his pulse point. It's hammering beneath Buccellati's mouth, and Abbacchio's chest hitches on a gasp when Buccellati's _teeth_ scrape over it.

Though. That's nothing compared to the deep groan he lets out – Buccellati can _feel_ it, echoed in his own chest – when Buccellati sucks that skin into his mouth. Savors it between his teeth and lavishes it with his tongue –

Abbacchio goes boneless against the door, slumping down toward the floor some. So Buccellati takes the opportunity to pen him in tighter, because he might well be the only thing keeping Abbacchio upright by now. The arms around his back clutch him ever-closer as Abbacchio's hands wander: one buries in Buccellati's hair, and the other presses firm to his waist. Keeps him _close_.

Encouragement spills out on each gasping breath that Abbacchio takes, and Buccellati lets the words soak in as he sucks Abbacchio's skin to bruising. Moves lower to repeat the process. Leaves _another_ mark, with careful attention.

_God_ he can't get enough of Leone – this contact – the sounds he makes – the taste of his skin – he's _so beautiful_ –

Long legs spread as Abbacchio sinks, until there's enough space for Buccellati to slip between them. His mouth is jostled away from its work, but he latches back on easy enough, higher on Abbacchio's neck. This new position makes the way he grinds forward all the more effective – sends heat racing _down_.

Abbacchio swears, short and sharp. Arches his spine and cants his hips into the contact, one leg coming up to _wrap around Buccellati's waist_ – and he has to grab at that thigh to keep their balance but it's more than fine. He's trailing kisses over the soft warmth of Abbacchio's cheek, aiming for dark purple lips but Abbacchio beats him to it, turns his head and catches Buccellati's mouth and _oh_.

Swapped kisses stifle his whimpers, and Buccellati eases one hand down from where it's thoroughly knotted in long, white hair. His fingers catch on the collar of Abbacchio's suit jacket, and with the help of Sticky Fingers, the fabric starts to unzip. Just a few centimeters.

Lips pulling free and breath heaving, Abbacchio pauses.

So Buccellati does, too. "Leone," he mumbles, still close enough that his mouth brushes Abbacchio's. He squeezes the thigh cradled in his hand, fingers the zipper on the back of Abbacchio's suit. "Can I…?"

There's a nondescript sort of grunt from Abbacchio. His body is taut and shivering with pleasure. "Hang – hang on."

And _oh_ that's interesting. Buccellati presses one last quick kiss to Abbacchio's cheek before leaning back. Giving him room to breathe. His face is flushed and his purple-gold eyes are lidded and his lips are slightly parted as he catches his breath, and it takes everything in Buccellati's power to resist kissing him.

Especially so when those lips quirk on a crooked smile, and Abbacchio says, "Let me."

That thigh stays settled on Buccellati's hip, but Abbacchio adjusts to stand steadier on his own. Brings his hands between them. Starts to undo the first button of his suit jacket – which is a form-fitting thing with a tempting keyhole that Buccellati's been _dying_ to dip his fingers into _all evening_ –

"I have, um…" As he speaks, Abbacchio ducks his head, focuses on unbuttoning his top, and _god_.

Buccellati's eyes follow Abbacchio's fingers as he, too, gets caught up in the way that tasteful suit jacket comes open to reveal _black lace_ stretched close over pale skin.

Wrapping Abbacchio's torso in an artful way that's enough to set Buccellati's heart hammering all over again, because Abbacchio has _never_ worn anything like _this_.

And – if Buccellati had given into impulse, if he'd reached into that shirt at any point of the evening, he would've felt…

Abbacchio is looking at him from beneath his eyelashes, as he shrugs his suit jacket off and lets it fall to the floor.

Heated sparks land low in Buccellati's gut and flood his chest. He's thoroughly caught between losing himself in Abbacchio's gaze and staring at the way sheer lingerie clings to him. His cleavage is left bare thanks to the plunging neckline, his nipples are barely concealed – god, Buccellati wants to _touch_ him.

Red is spreading down Abbacchio's chest as he takes a deep breath, ducking his head again. Surely he can't be nervous? Fuck, what's there to be nervous about when you look like _that?_

All too eager to alleviate nerves and offer reassurance, Buccellati surges forward. He keeps one hand clutched to Abbacchio's thigh, while the other roves over every bit of skin-and-lace it can find. Glides up over Abbacchio's ribcage and across his chest, the rough texture of lace a tempting contrast to the soft of Abbacchio's skin, and Abbacchio arches into each touch, back to hauling Buccellati in close, devouring his mouth.

"You like it?" Abbacchio asks, the words so slurred between kisses that Buccellati barely catches them. "Wasn't sure if I could – pull it off –"

And Buccellati _can't_ leave any room for doubt, so he comes up for air and gasps, "You're stunning."

Before he can dip back in for _more_, though, Abbacchio's mouth twitches into a grin at one corner, and his hands land gentle against Buccellati's chest, keeping their minimal distance. "There's more."

Loath as Buccellati is to separate too fully from Abbacchio, _there's more_, so he lets that thigh fall away. Backs up half a step.

From here, it's easier to reach for Abbacchio's custom-made pants, even with the way Buccellati's fingers are trembling. He pops the button. Drags down the zipper while eager hips arch into his hands and Abbacchio grunts at the not-friction.

Abbacchio's palms overlay Bruno's hands on his waist to help push the pants down over his hips, then his thighs, until they're pooled on the floor and Buccellati is struck speechless.

_More_ black lace. And silk. Panties cradling Abbacchio's form but that isn't even _all_.

A pair of sheer thigh highs hug Abbacchio's legs. Their lace trim lands halfway up his thighs, leaving tantalizing patches of pale skin that Buccellati wants to _lavish_. The feeling redoubles as Abbacchio shifts, muscles in his legs flexing minutely as he steps out of his pants and is left not-quite-bare to Buccellati.

_Fuck_. Buccellati is torn between staring and touching, brain stalled out and insides aflame.

"It's nothing fancy, like yours," Abbacchio says, smile flickering. He's got his head bowed, and he's fiddling with the lace on one of his thigh highs, tugging it up and snapping the elastic. "But…" He makes eye contact again. "Happy birthday."

Bruno reaches for Leone, sinking against him anew and murmuring, "I love you so much," into the soft of his mouth.

* * *

**A/N:** This is a bit late (sorry..!) bc:  
1\. I slept in,  
2\. My ability to write hot and heavy things is forever rusty, no matter how much I oil and polish it via practice feat. the growing pile of NSFWIPs hanging out in my fanfic folders...  
3\. Related to point 2, I can't stop tweaking this quick little thing so please take it off my hands as is.

Thanks for reading,,


	16. Whistle

**A/N:** Day 16: Whistle

Obligatory police officer and fisherman AU,

* * *

Abbacchio's feet carry him through his patrol on automatic, walking the now-familiar beat with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

…Which isn't a whole lot these days, but it's better than none at all.

He should stay more alert than this; do his actual job and all. Useless though his actual job might be, in a sleepy town like this, where the most Abbacchio's done is help carry some boxes or return a lost child that wandered a street too far from home. There isn't much chance to stop any real crime here – to be of any real _help_ – but work is still work. That's what he tells himself, at least. This is only temporary.

So Abbacchio puts in a token effort to focus on the world around him, no matter how boring it may be. It's a quaint little fishing village, so the scenery is all picturesque. For him, though, the charm wore off weeks ago.

It didn't take him long to get his patrol route (and the layout of the entire town, for that matter) memorized, so there's no danger of getting lost, even if he spaces out. That happened once.

Now, he takes that same wrong turn on purpose and without a second thought. Fully aware of where he's going. Not at all minding the extra minutes it'll take out of his already-long day.

The whistling draws him in, like it _always_ does. Like it did that very first day.

Patrols would be downright miserable without that familiar song carried on the wind, and today Abbacchio finds himself singing along under his breath. The whistling pulls him down a road that overlooks the beach, and brings him so close to the edge of it that his knees bump the guard rail.

The fisherman is there, on the beach. Just as he is every other day that Abbacchio follows the whistling, so there's no reason for his heart to skip as many beats as it does.

Then again – maybe there is.

The fisherman's boat is out of the water today, rather than docked or at sea. Probably for maintenance, because it seems like he's washing it, as far as Abbacchio can tell. He's done that before. That isn't anything new. No reason for the heartbeat skipping.

What _is_ new, and a reason, is that. Well.

The (_handsome_) fisherman is _shirtless_ beneath the bright summer sun, and Abbacchio is very much enraptured by the way muscle moves beneath tanned skin as the man works.

…God. This is delving into creepy territory, isn't it?

Most days, he gets a wave from the handsome fisherman and then goes about his patrol with a certain whistled melody stuck in his head. Twice, he even got a _smile_ that pulled his stupid crushing heart out of his chest and plastered it messy on his sleeve for all the world to see – to say nothing of his _blush_.

These interactions are impactful enough as is, and Abbacchio doesn't even want to think about what they'll do to him under _these_ conditions. Lucky for him, he hasn't been spotted yet, and so hasn't been waved to.

Maybe he should get out of here before he _is_ spotted, or waved to, or smiled at, because all of this staring really is fucking creepy but his feet won't move.

Over the two months that Abbacchio's been stuck in this quiet seaside village, this fisherman has been the one thing that could qualify as a bright spot. Not just because he happens to be _attractive_, but also because…he always seems to be in high spirits. Always whistling while he works no matter what the weather as he patches nets, or changes the oil in his boat, or teaches tourists how to cast.

He's…he's _sunshine_, and Abbacchio's days have been overcast of late. Something about this handsome, resolute fisherman soothes some soft piece of Abbacchio. Calms him, almost, even from a distance.

Which shouldn't be possible and sounds like a stupid and disgustingly fond way to think of a man whose name Abbacchio doesn't even know, but. He's maybe dawdled away too many work hours standing here, collectively speaking.

He really should get going. Another thirty seconds and he'll head back to work, during which he will _not_ think of sweat-slick skin and dark hair pulled into a tiny ponytail –

The fisherman turns around, and any thought Abbacchio had of leaving evaporates.

Hell, any thought he had _at all_ evaporates, in the face of that smile when the fisherman catches sight of him. It really does rival the sun, and sends Abbacchio's heart diving into his stomach as his own mouth makes a pathetic attempt at returning the smile.

This is where their interactions usually end.

Today, it seems, is just full of surprises, though.

Because the handsome fisherman tosses his work aside – literally drops his sponge into a bucket so that he can wave with his whole arm, and shout, "I was hoping I'd see you, today!"

What the – how the hell is Abbacchio supposed to take that?! They've never. They don't really _talk_. To each other. And now the fisherman whose name Abbacchio does not know is saying something like _that_, while not wearing a shirt, and Abbacchio is stuck in place, unable to form words.

"Wait there," is the next bomb that the very attractive stranger who unwittingly brightens all of Abbacchio's days drops, "I'm coming up!"

True to his word, he trots along in the direction of the stairs. Abbacchio mirrors him up on the road, feet finally moving while he's in a daze thanks to this break in routine. All he can do is go with it, and going with it brings him face to face with a beautiful man at the top of an old stone staircase in a picturesque little fishing village.

"Hi," the fisherman says. His smile – his _everything_ – is even more devastating up close. "I'm Bruno."

Holy shit.

It takes Abbacchio way too many seconds to pull himself together and respond, and all he manages is a simple, "Leone," because they're doing _first names_, apparently.

Fuck.

Bruno's eyes are a more vibrant blue than the ocean, and there's a smattering of freckles over his nose, probably from the sun. His dark hair is messy in its ponytail, his bangs starting to escape from where they're pinned back. There are more freckles scattered on his shoulders, and his chest is glistening with sweat and _alright_ that's enough ogling.

"Nice to officially meet you," Bruno is saying, as he offers a hand for Abbacchio to shake.

It's calloused and warm, and somehow fits perfect when aligned with Abbacchio's. He should probably say something back, right? The only thing that comes out is a quiet, "Yeah," so that'll have to do, while he's busy drowning in Bruno's eyes.

Bruno reclaims his hand, and ah, Abbacchio kept hold of it awkwardly long, didn't he? Stupid mistake. He's got to pull himself together. He is a professional adult and _not_ a skittish teenager experiencing attraction for the first –

"I…wanted to thank you."

…What?

What the hell?

Abbacchio hasn't done a single noteworthy thing since he got to this town, and he's especially never interacted with _Bruno_ before (that's the kind of thing he would remember), so there's _no reason _for Bruno to be thanking him.

"My father told me how you helped him, the other day."

Oh.

Oh, that was Bruno's father? Come to think of it, he did look sort of familiar – that's right, he's usually working with Bruno. But today he's missing, along with Bruno's shirt –

"It was nothing." All Abbacchio did was carry a couple of boxes, because the man's hand was all wrapped up in a cast and he didn't look like he should be handling heavy stuff.

Bruno shakes his head, and then tucks the resulting loosened strands of hair behind his ear. "He's very stubborn. He broke his wrist the other day, and still wants to do everything himself…you helped my argument to get him to take some time off, so thank you."

"I…" Abbacchio is all set to protest that whole helping thing, but something in the set of Bruno's expression stops him, and instead he settles on a nice, safe, "You're welcome."

Nothing on earth or anywhere else could prepare Abbacchio for what Bruno says next.

"It's nice to see you around so often."

It's the sun's fault for how fast Abbacchio's face heats up, but the way his innards turn to thousands of fluttering butterfly wings is all on him.

"I mean." The tips of Bruno's ears are red, and his relaxed posture goes a bit rigid. "It makes this little town feel safer, seeing you so dedicated. There are rumors of gang activity on nearby islands so, um. It's…good to have an officer around."

Somehow, the clarification doesn't calm Abbacchio's newfound butterfly swarm any. "It's…" He's got the overwhelming urge to hide behind his hat or duck into his collar. Like a _professional adult_. "It's my job."

They stand there, for a time, in surprisingly companionable silence. Bruno sure doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get back to his boat, and Abbacchio is most definitely not in a hurry to get back to his boring daily walk. Eye contact with Bruno can fill the remaining hours of his day. Nothing wrong with that.

"Well…I shouldn't keep you." That's what Bruno says, anyway – but he lingers. Doesn't move right away. The red from his ears is starting to spread to his cheeks.

Abbacchio is more than happy to be kept, but saying that aloud would be overkill. Just the thought of it sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He has to say _something_, though, and so: "It was nice talking to you." (For all the _zero words_ Abbacchio squeezed out over the entire conversation – god –)

Against all odds, that subtle smile crosses Bruno's face again. "It was." And then, miracle of all miracles, he adds, "I'll see you tomorrow, Leone."

_Tomorrow_, he says. Like they'll do this _again_.

"See you…"

And then Bruno heads back down to the beach. Tosses one last wave over his shoulder once he's at the bottom of the stairs, and _shit_ now he knows that Abbacchio was watching him the whole fucking time…

At least he doesn't seem to mind. He's whistling again, as he resumes his boat maintenance.

Abbacchio convinces his feet to move and gets on with his patrolling, humming that melody long after the beach is out of earshot.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading,


	17. Tender

**A/N:** Day 17: Tender

...Sappy fluff.

* * *

The sound of rain falling heavy on the roof is enough to lull Buccellati to sleep where he stands. It eggs him on, as he pads across the bedroom carpet and climbs into his half of the bed, slipping beneath the covers.

Abbacchio gives a quiet grunt as he's jostled with the movement, and Buccellati mutters an equally quiet apology as he settles beside him. The bottle of black nail polish pressed precariously between Abbacchio's knees stays put, and he gets right back to adding a second coat to his nails.

"Do you have to do that now?"

"I'm not waking up early to do it in the morning," Abbacchio grumbles, and that's fair, Buccellati supposes.

At the same time, though: it's bedtime. The mattress is soft, their blankets are warm, and that rain is still falling outside in a way that creates a perfect ambience. Buccellati could very easily sink into sleep, with or without company, _but_.

It's cuddling weather. Abbacchio is warmer than the blankets.

Sitting up, Buccellati scooches toward Abbacchio, careful not to bump him too much (lest he mess up and have to start all over) while closing as much of the distance between them as possible. Maximum closeness achieved, he leans fully against Abbacchio. Winds his arms in sideways around Abbacchio's waist, and rests a cheek on his strong shoulder.

There's a soft, comfortable noise from Abbacchio, and if Buccellati tips his face up, he can catch a faint splash of pink coloring high cheekbones.

Kissing one of those cheekbones sounds divine. It'd require too much movement, though, and he's quite comfortable here. So he settles for brushing his lips over Abbacchio's jaw instead, before relaxing back to his shoulder pillow.

"Can I finish, now?" Abbacchio mutters, no heat at all in his voice. His hands are stilled with the nail polish brush halfway out of the bottle.

Something about it makes Buccellati want to smile. "I'm not stopping you."

Abbacchio lets out an amused huff, and re-dips the brush to start in on his right hand. "Stop moving, then," he says, when Buccellati can't help but nuzzle into the warm-soft feel of the shoulder beneath his cheek.

It's not his fault that Abbacchio makes such a comfortable pillow, but he'll try to hold still, for the sake of Abbacchio finishing up and curling into bed with him quicker. This is the second coat, after all, so it should be done soon, no matter how much Abbacchio's tutting under his breath about it coming out messier than his left hand.

All of it looks fine to Buccellati. Because Abbacchio's hands always look good to him, all long, graceful fingers and soft palms, a perfect size and shape to tangle with Buccellati's own hands…

"You done?" he asks, when the nail polish is capped but not set aside.

"They still have to dry, Bruno."

Ah, of course.

…This isn't fair. Ordinarily, Abbacchio is the one ushering him into bed, so it just figures that the one time Buccellati actually _wants_ to sleep, Abbacchio is bent on staying up too late. If only by a handful of minutes.

Buccellati squeezes him in a tight hug, and basks in the warm kiss that's pressed to his forehead in return. This'll do, while the nail polish dries. Another few minutes here, then he can finally drag Abbacchio under the covers. Wrap around him properly, and be held in turn. Just like this type of cold, rainy, borderline miserable weather calls for.

Abbacchio is blowing on his nails, leaning his warm weight into Buccellati's hold.

He's just so…he's perfect, for nights like this. Broad with soft muscle, and long limbs that Buccellati loves to tangle himself in until he loses track of whose body is whose. The strong lines of his face rendered approachable without makeup. No lipstick between their kisses.

He's just…Leone. And that's…

Clutching Abbacchio's shirt, Buccellati slumps in ever-closer. His desire to melt into Abbacchio and sleep the night away cozied up is getting progressively stronger, with each feather-light touch of lips to his forehead. Keeping his eyes open is an absolute chore.

"You _must_ be tired," Abbacchio mumbles, directly into Buccellati's hair.

Buccellati makes a sound that he hopes is affirmative, because _duh_. It's getting awfully difficult to resist the drowsy pull of sleep, with Abbacchio so close and wrapping an arm around him…holding his hand…

He's over halfway asleep, and sinking fast.

At least until a cold touch on his fingernail has him cracking open an eye. His palm is cradled in one of Abbacchio's, with fingers positioned just so as Abbacchio brushes black polish onto his nails.

"Leone," he grumbles.

"Sleepyhead," Abbacchio accuses, in what is the biggest hypocrite move of all time. He's the real sleepyhead around here, and they both know it. It's an unusual happenstance that he wound up with the lion's share of the energy tonight, while Buccellati is forced to give in to exhaustion.

"Don't." It's an empty complaint, because in reality, Buccellati has no desire to reclaim his hand and no energy to pretend otherwise.

A puff of air ruffles Buccellati's bangs as Abbacchio gives a light laugh. "I just want to see what it would look like on you," he says. "Just one coat." But no matter how many kisses he presses to Buccellati's forehead, this bedtime delay will not be forgotten anytime soon.

Still. When Buccellati convinces both of his eyes to open fully, there's attractive black polish on his nails, and an even more attractive pink flush on Abbacchio's cheeks.

A rush of affection fills Buccellati's chest to the brim, spilling over the sides. He shifts around until he can drop a kiss to Abbacchio's neck, feeling and hearing his soft sigh in response. The first hand is released, so Buccellati offers the other, because he can't deny the giddy feeling in his heart brought on by matching nail polish.

Luckily, Abbacchio is well-practiced at and therefore quick at painting nails. It doesn't take him long to finish up, and set the bottle down on their bedside table at last.

And then Abbacchio's arms wind around Buccellati, hugging him in close, and he sinks into the finally-returned contact, greedily soaking up Abbacchio's proximity.

…At the same time, though:

"Now I have to wait for this to dry."

"It won't take long."

"Hm." Buccellati isn't sure he believes that. These few seconds have already felt too long. He tugs on Abbacchio's shirt, coaxing him to bend close enough to kiss. Just an easy press of lips, soft and warm and somehow even _more_ relaxing, though Buccellati was certain he was already all-the-way relaxed. "Sleep," he mutters against Abbacchio's mouth.

"Okay." Another gentle kiss. "But when your nails are fucked up in the morning, don't blame me."

That would be his fault to begin with, for doing it so late, but Buccellati is too tired to mention it. The only thing he has energy for right now is lying back down, and welcoming Abbacchio beneath the covers when he _finally_ slips under them.

They settle face to face, and as they do Buccellati distantly notes the not-dry polish on his nails catching on blankets and clothes and Abbacchio's hair – but it's not enough to give him significant pause.

And it's _definitely_ not enough to keep him from wrapping his entire body around Abbacchio's warm presence. Buccellati wriggles forward until there isn't a single centimeter of space separating them, and tangles their legs together.

He hugs Abbacchio tight. Presses a kiss to his throat.

"You're fixing our nails tomorrow," Abbacchio grouches, disrupting the comfort in a way that only makes Buccellati feel more at ease, somehow.

"Mh," Buccellati responds. Noncommittal confirmation. Tomorrow he'll worry about getting Abbacchio to fix their nails. Tonight, he's falling asleep in the space of those safe arms, with the sound of the rain as a pleasant backdrop. "Love you."

There's some muttering that Buccellati is too sleepy to decipher, and then Abbacchio is nosing through his bangs to deposit one last kiss to his forehead.

"Love you, too."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	18. Run

**A/N:** Day 18: Run

Warnings for violence, blood, and injury. Nothing too graphic, but it's a couple steps up from mild.

* * *

Abbacchio's feet pound the pavement with fervor as he runs with Buccellati's hand clutched tight in his own, threatening to slip free in the rain.

The downpour drenches them both to the core, but there isn't any time to stop for shelter. They have to keep _going_. Outnumbered, they're in no position to fight back just yet. With that many guns on their tail, coming from who knows how many different directions, waiting out in the open until they're within stand range is too dangerous.

Dodging and weaving through streets packed tight with buildings is their only advantage for now, until they can –

"Our best bet is to ambush them," Buccellati says, over the din of the rain and the thundering of Abbacchio's heart. "Hide somewhere, get them all in one place, and then surprise them."

Yeah, that.

"Got it," Abbacchio grunts. His longer legs keep him in front of Buccellati, guiding him, trying not to pull him along – it's probably annoying, but Buccellati doesn't let go.

The hand holding isn't _necessary_ and is hindering their speed, but the tread on Buccellati's shoes is too worn and slippery in the rain, so he needs this support if he doesn't want to fall – and Abbacchio needs the reassurance – but that doesn't matter right now.

What matters is that Abbacchio is in _front_. So he casts his gaze around, seeking out a good niche to drag Buccellati into for safekeeping.

But somehow Buccellati still manages to spot it first, pointing from behind Abbacchio. "That alleyway will be perfect." Abbacchio spares a second to follow Buccellati's finger, attention locked on the alley's entrance as Buccellati explains, "Once we're there, Sticky Fingers can –"

A familiar series of muffled noises from behind them interrupts Buccellati. _Gunshots_, stifled by silencers.

Buccellati trips and collides with Abbacchio's back, gasping as their hands slip apart and he damn near falls, and fuck it, Abbacchio is buying him new shoes after this –

Reflexively, he turns to grab at Buccellati, winds up hauling the both of them into the alley, a sloppy tangle of stumbling feet that ends with Abbacchio's back hitting a cold concrete wall. But at least they're out of the line of fire. For now.

They have a couple minutes at the most, for Sticky Fingers to get them set up in a zipper pocket, but.

But Buccellati doesn't make any move to call out his stand. He's standing with his shoulders hunched and head bowed, oddly still beneath Abbacchio's supporting hands. His breath is coming in sharp gasps, and it's only been a handful of seconds that he's been stagnant but usually he's right on the ball.

"Buccellati."

Sagging a bit in Abbacchio's hold, Buccellati's head dips before he hauls it upward. His eyes are tight at the edges, hair plastered to his face by the rain, mouth a grim line. "I got it," he assures, "just – just one second."

Hurried footsteps are almost on top of them now, though, and they don't _have_ one second.

A tight, cold feeling takes hold of Abbacchio's gut, freezing him in place. He squeezes hard at Buccellati's shoulders, heart in his throat as he tries to work out what to do amidst an uncomfortable amount of panic –

Sticky Fingers appears, thank fuck, and uses its left hand to start opening a hole in the wall at Abbacchio's back. He takes half a step backwards into it, and Buccellati sinks into him in turn, slumping forward, and that's when Abbacchio spots it.

Dark red. Blossoming out from a hole in the back of Buccellati's right shoulder, soaking the white of his suit and Abbacchio's fingertips and _how did he not notice_ –

The rain made it hard to tell. Maybe. Everything is wet and cold except for the _warm_-wet spreading beneath Abbacchio's hand and there's a _wound_ at its center and his chest seizes up. He digs his feet in and locks his knees, refusing to enter the pocket dimension at his back.

"Bruno – Bruno, holy shit, stop –"

Buccellati shakes his head, pushing against Abbacchio with a surprising amount of strength for a guy who was _shot_. "It's fine," he says, "I'm fine, we need to –"

"You're not fine, just let me –"

With a rough shove, Buccellati forces them both into the safety of Sticky Fingers' storage space, zipping it shut behind them. He stays pressed to Abbacchio's chest, forehead leaning on his shoulder as breaths hiss through his teeth.

Abbacchio stands as steady and tall as he can. His hand slips at Buccellati's bloodied shoulder, and he looks down, tries to nudge fabric aside to get a better view of the mess, wants to put some pressure on it, at least –

"_Stop it_," Buccellati gasps, and _shit_.

Abbacchio gives up, with both hands layered atop the wound and Buccellati wrapped in some kind of sloppy, coincidental hug. Abbacchio's heart is frantic in his chest. There's so much blood. Leaking between his fingers. And it was his fault again. Buccellati put himself between Abbacchio and the gun, just like –

No, he can't do this here. There isn't time to do this here.

He swallows down the guilt and the memories and the pain to wallow in _later_, because Buccellati needs him _now_.

"I'll be alright," Buccellati is saying, voice taut with pain, as he sends Sticky Fingers around behind himself. "I'll zip it up, and then we'll finish this."

"_No_."

"Leone –"

"You're not going back out there!"

Squirming with an impressive amount of vigor, Buccellati separates from Abbacchio, and already-slippery hands slip away from that wound so Sticky Fingers can seal it. At this new angle and distance, Abbacchio can't see it, but he hopes that the bleeding has stopped.

Buccellati lifts his chin, and squares his shoulders with a barely-there flicker of a grimace. "They're waiting for us," he says, his voice just the wrong side of steady, "but they won't know where we're coming from. We'll have to take them out quick, before they can reorient themselves."

That's all well and good. Makes perfect sense. But Buccellati is planning to _fight_ with a _bullet in his shoulder_, and Sticky Fingers is already opening up the wall again, and Abbacchio can't let this happen.

"We can wait them out," he tries, but his fretting mind reminds him that blood loss is a thing, for one, and –

"We can't," is all Buccellati says. It's enough, though, layered with a million and one unspoken reasons why.

Abbacchio is well aware.

So he does the only thing he can think of. Grabs Buccellati, spins them both around and swaps places with him. Barrels past Sticky Fingers into the alley. Sends Moody Blues to try and block Buccellati's inevitable escape.

In the alley, things are a mess. Blood on Abbacchio's hands, on the ground, being washed away by rain but there all the same – it's all he can focus on for a second – but he _doesn't have a second_.

Those assholes are all gathered waiting at the wrong end of the alley, and Abbacchio feels a whole lot of nothing – or is it _everything_ – as he rushes them. Grabs the barrel of the nearest gun. Shoves it back until it cracks off a skull, right between the eyes.

They're all on him at once, but that's _fine_. He owes them for what they did to – shit, thinking is dangerous, nearly gets him shot so instinct it is.

He turns his newly acquired gun on someone else. Elbows another guy in the nose, pushing until he drops. Feels a bullet graze his arm and goes for whoever shot it next. Maybe gets hit in the head and kind of blacks the fuck out and loses track of the fight in a vicious blur until –

Several heads are severed by zippers, and anyone who's still conscious collapses, heads rolling away.

It's over in seconds. Before Abbacchio got the chance to really get going, which is a fucking _shame_.

More important than that, though, is the sight of Buccellati standing in the alleyway. Leaned heavily against the wall and clutching at his right arm. Which is the one that Sticky Fingers presumably just used to attack. And also the one with the bullet wound.

"What the hell was that for?!"

An aggravated expression crosses Buccellati's face, magnified by pain. "Much as I love watching you fight, Leone," he snaps, "you were outnumbered and I'm faster."

"I had it handled. You're _hurt_." God, he's so hurt.

"I'm fine."

He's _not_. He's wrought and he's pale and he's trembling. Blood is soaking his shirt, still leaking from the zipper that is barely holding him together, Abbacchio can see it now. Red sneaking between golden zipper teeth.

Crumpled enemies and their lolling heads litter the ground, but Abbacchio steps over all of it. Ignores his own minor twinging injuries – fuck, did someone get a lucky hit in on his face? – until he's at Buccellati's side. His heartrate just kept right on spiking during the fight, and it isn't showing any signs of slowing down anytime soon.

Buccellati looks even worse up close.

"We need to get you to a hospital."

Pushing off of the wall, Buccellati sways on his feet for a moment before managing to steady himself. His gaze is hardened, and he shakes his head once. "Just take me home, Leone," he insists, through clenched teeth.

Oh no, this is not something Buccellati should be allowed to fix with Sticky Fingers amateur first aid. Abbacchio is not going to let that happen. "But you –"

"_Please_." Buccellati's expression cracks, just for a second.

That's all it takes.

Heart in his throat, Abbacchio reaches for Buccellati with trembling, bloodstained hands.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading..!


	19. Training

**A/N:** Day 19: Training

Warnings for references to alcoholism/coping via alcohol, brief mentions of human experimentation, and a nosebleed.

Superpowers AU.

* * *

"You'll get the hang of it," Buccellati says, and it _would_ be reassuring, yeah, except that this is the umpteenth time he's said so in the past _hour_.

Surprise of surprises, it doesn't actually help more than it did the past billion times.

Abbacchio clenches his fists at his sides and stands with his shoulders tensed tight. Fighting the urge to storm out.

He's starting to hate this training room. And that pencil on the table in front of him. And the chair he refuses to sit back down in – though that _should_ be safe, so long as he keeps his hands off of it. (_Maybe_, his ability's activated before without the use of his hands, fuck if he fully understands how it works.)

But the chair also puts him closer to Buccellati, and that's…

Abbacchio just wants some space. To clear his head, or some shit.

Because no matter how much he vows to never touch the pencil again, one glance at Buccellati's schooled expression tells him he _will_, and he hates that, too.

"It takes practice and time."

"I know," Abbacchio growls. God, he _knows_. He needs a drink. Something strong enough to dull all of this down so he can pretend he's still normal for a while – but that's counterproductive to the job he's signed on for, he'll never learn to control this power-that-he-didn't-ask-for that way, it'll only make things worse in the long run etc. etc.…

Buccellati has the nerve to _sigh_ at him. "If you don't learn to turn this on and off at will, you'll –"

"Fuck – I _know_, okay? I've lived with this for months, remember?"

That shuts Buccellati up. His mouth presses into a thin line, his posture rigid as ever. Probably feels guilty over the aforementioned months, wherein after rescuing Abbacchio from a certain lab he left him to his own devices.

Buccellati isn't to blame for everything, though. He's trying to help _now_, at least. And he's just about the only person who's done that for Abbacchio so far.

Not even Abbacchio has tried to help himself beyond dulling his own senses. This is a grave of his own digging, after all. He was warned away from investigating Diavolo time and again by just about _everyone_, his superiors and Buccellati included. But he couldn't keep his nose out of things, wanted truth, wanted _justice_ – and so now here he is: on the run, stuck in Buccellati's little vigilante group's hideout, trying to hone powers that were forced upon him during an experiment he doesn't want to remember.

Because it turns out that supervillains _hate_ policemen who can't keep their noses out of things.

(Well. He's not a policeman anymore but. That's beside the point.)

"I'm sorry," Buccellati says, slowly, and boy does Abbacchio hate the uncomfortable feeling that squirms into his gut at those words, "that I didn't come to you sooner. But I need your help if we're going to stop Diavolo, because you're the only one who can track him down."

For that, Abbacchio needs these stupid powers to _work_, instead of sabotaging his headspace like they have been. That's the unspoken bit that Buccellati leaves out.

(Actually, there are a lot of unspoken bits that Buccellati leaves out, but Abbacchio isn't in the mood to rehash them today. He's so damn sick of memories assaulting him at every turn.)

See, if Abbacchio knelt and touched the floor right now, he would _theoretically_ be able to sense every person who ever set foot here, along with what they were doing. Where they were going, maybe. Buccellati seems to think that he could even tell what was on their minds, if he really focuses.

The problem is that as Abbacchio is now, the influx of information would overload his brain and knock him out. Or worse.

Hence the need to learn to sort through it – to search and filter and find specifics. Hence this stuffy training room. Hence that goddamned _pencil_.

"I'm just tired of seeing nothing but hands," Abbacchio grumbles in the end, though that isn't the root problem _at all_, and Buccellati knows it.

The root problem is that Abbacchio sucks at this. Lacks that special something that comes from being _born_ with powers. Artificial abilities awakened by a crazed doctor's experiments just aren't the same. What a pity.

Buccellati's lips twitch. They almost form a smile, maybe.

And even after all of the trouble that knowing this man has caused Abbacchio, the sight of that maybe-smile still sends his heart into a fit. Which is _not_ _fair_.

"Why don't you try reading something else, then?"

"Like what? You remember what happened when I tried the table."

But Buccellati only shrugs this off, blasé about the fact that they had to buy an entirely new training room table for Abbacchio's sake, after that time he accidentally rested his bare palms on the old one. (Turns out someone had once upon a time used it for some training that was more…_physical_.)

"You haven't tried a person, in a while."

Yeah, and there's a damn good reason for that. It's the same as the reason why he stopped leaving his apartment only a week after his abilities fully manifested. "That's not a good idea."

"Maybe not," Buccellati says. His eyes are so genuine that Abbacchio can't help but deepen his scowl. "But you haven't had much luck with inanimate objects so far."

Because _he sucks at this_, and should be left to rot. (Hell, maybe he doesn't even _want_ to control it. Maybe he just wants rid of it, greater good be damned.) Abbacchio nudges the chair away from the table with his foot, and takes a heavy seat. "I haven't exactly had much luck with people either."

"You haven't tried since you started practicing."

"That was _three days_ ago." And it's done fuck-all to help so far.

"Just –" Buccellati reaches for Abbacchio's hands, but Abbacchio recoils, curling his arms in. Buccellati's hands drop to the tabletop between them, looking dejected – as expressive as _hands_ can look, anyway. "Just try it."

"What – with you?"

"Yes."

Buccellati can't be serious. He doesn't know what the hell he's asking for – Abbacchio brushed skin with another person twice since he got these powers, and both times his brain nearly melted from the strain of a thousand memories flooding his head at once. It's _invasive_. And Abbacchio knows for a fact that Buccellati is a private sort.

Abbacchio wrings his hands together, dropping them to his lap. "You realize I can't control this shit at-fucking-all, right?"

"That's what we're trying to fix," Buccellati says, and his hands are still resting on the table, palm-up. He doesn't reach for Abbacchio, or retract them. Somehow that makes this whole thing worse – it's all on Abbacchio, now.

But, see, the thing is: "I don't want to dive into your head." Because he's scared of what he'll see. Scared of what he won't. Already knows what memory he would dig for, but isn't that just so fucking _selfish_?

"Let me help you, Leone," is what Buccellati says in response, his voice laced with something that Abbacchio would rather not confirm.

It sets all of his meager defenses crumbling to dust.

He glares at the hands on the table and wishes he wasn't so weak.

Through clenched teeth and with a reluctant tongue, he asks, "Is there anything specific you want me to look for?"

"You pick."

Fuck. So this is happening.

Abbacchio should go for something practical. He should most definitely not search for the memories he _wants_ to find, the ones from a simpler time. He should…he should look for something related to Buccellati's powers and how he makes such efficient use of them. That would be helpful.

…This is a mistake.

Abbacchio reaches for Buccellati's hand, anyway.

His fingers brush warm skin, and that's the last he physically _feels_ before his mind is flooded. It's like being bowled over by a wave taller than you at the beach, then being pulled out to sea, sucked in by the undertow and battered around for good measure.

Abbacchio tries to wrap his own mind around the flood. Clog the holes. Cling to one specific thought or memory or scene amidst the thousands that flash by like a skipping movie reel.

He looks for _himself_. Half a year ago, when things were easier and his hair was shorter and he and Buccellati met for the very first time, and then again and _again_ after that.

Back when Abbacchio realized that hey, vigilante justice isn't so bad.

And those who enact it aren't so bad either.

It – it works. There he is, suddenly, clear as day, on a rooftop in his old uniform. It feels _weird_. Not at all like looking in a mirror, and he wants to glance away, except this is Buccellati's memory, and it turns out that Buccellati _never_ glanced away.

There are feelings, too. Strong ones that get only stronger as the memories start flashing through each of their encounters. Fondness. Attraction. _Warmth_. Care. Fear, when he was in danger, and –

Abbacchio yanks his hand back.

He's breathing heavier than normal, and his head hurts as the room around him comes into blurry focus, Buccellati along with it. All of the lights in here are too bright.

"You did it," Buccellati says. Sounds surprised. "That felt…"

"You felt it?" Something warm is trickling from Abbacchio's nose, and when he swipes his fingers through it, they come away bloody. He tugs his sleeve over his hand and presses it to his nose. Fuck, he's never doing that again…

A strange, soft expression settles on Buccellati's face. It's almost painful to look at. "I saw it, too."

Abbacchio's stomach swoops. _Shit_. "What?"

"Your ability is definitely mental…" Buccellati is reaching for him, again, fingers brushing over Abbacchio's cheek and all of those feelings rush right back in.

Abbacchio ducks away. Shoves his chair backward. He can't stop _staring at Buccellati_ with residual shared warmth in his chest. Psychic powers sure are fucking swell, aren't they?

There's silence for a long time, and Abbacchio wants to be anywhere but here. His nose is still bleeding and his head is still pounding and Buccellati knows he went digging to check if his crush really was returned all those long months ago and will probably be distant with him now – more so than usual –

Something nudges at Abbacchio's ankle under the table. It's Buccellati's shoe, and it pokes until Abbacchio relents and hauls his gaze upward to make eye contact.

Buccellat's eyes are blue and shining with purpose as he says, "I still feel that way, you know. About you."

Abbacchio's mouth stays stuck shut.

He's afraid of what will spill out if he pries it open.

* * *

**A/N:** This is technically a snapshot of a much bigger superhero AU I have sitting around as a rough outline, but I know I'll never write in full. Tried to write this short in a way that would make sense/be enjoyable out of context,,

Canon!verse will be back tomorrow. :')

Thanks for reading!


	20. Drunk

The scene in Abbacchio's apartment is just about what Buccellati expects, when he lets himself in.

All of the lights are off. The curtains are closed tight, blocking any lingering sunshine. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he waits to let them because he's half afraid of what he'll trip over if he goes in blind.

The floor is clean, though. Or at least, the path from the front door to the living room is, and that's better than nothing.

And it turns out to be the only path that Buccellati needs, because there's Abbacchio. Sprawled miserable on the couch – his tall form taking up the entirety of it – and watching the ceiling with vacant eyes. A position that makes Buccellati's stomach start to hurt the longer he looks.

This particular picture won't get any better just by watching, so Buccellati wanders into the room and takes a heavy seat on the coffee table.

…Closer proximity doesn't help the whole sympathetic stomach pain thing. All Buccellati has now is a front row seat to dark bags under dull eyes, and the drooping way Abbacchio's body sinks into the couch. Like something is dragging him down.

A soft intake of air through quivering, lipstick-stained lips is the only sign Abbacchio gives that he's noticed Buccellati's presence at all.

"We missed you today, Abbacchio," Buccellati tries.

Now those dull eyes shift toward him. Their usual glimmer is nowhere to be seen, and he distantly wonders if it would return to them, if only he went over and opened some curtains. Let some light in to reflect off of tarnished purple-gold.

Abbacchio doesn't say anything. Just presses his mouth into a tight line.

One of his arms is dangling off of the couch, and his fingers twitch around the neck of a wine bottle on the floor between him and Buccellati. That's all the more he moves.

With a deep breath, Buccellati deflates.

Slumping in his seat on the coffee table, he lets himself have a moment. He's too exhausted to care, and Abbacchio is likely too drunk to remember or really be able to tell what's going on, so it'll be okay. Just for a second. For Buccellati to let his guard down and just _be tired_.

His shoulders curl down so far that they're already getting sore – or maybe that's from holding them rigid all day – and he lets his head fall into his palms.

Healing is a process. This, he knows.

Abbacchio will hardly get better overnight. Just because he was doing well last week doesn't mean he won't suffer setbacks. It's natural, it's normal, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

…Buccellati hasn't been feeling so hot himself lately, either, which isn't helpful. He tries. Pushes himself through it because that's the only thing he can really do, and he'll be enough for himself, but Abbacchio –

Some days it feels like Abbacchio doesn't want to be saved. Like he doesn't want to heal.

Rubbing his hands down his face, Buccellati looks at him again. Those eyes are back to being fixed on the ceiling, and his jaw is clenched, ticking like it's trying to hold back words or vomit or both. His fingers squeeze tight around the wine bottle.

"You can't just stay like this."

Abbacchio makes an ugly snorting sound. "Who asked you to care, anyway?"

Nobody. Not in so many words. No one ever does, least of all in this situation, but Buccellati can't help himself. He can't leave well enough alone when he's close enough to make it better – as long as it's in his power to help, he will.

But in this case, he can't help unless Abbacchio helps himself first.

All of the money he's paid goes to alcohol. Or a good chunk of it, anyway. No matter what Buccellati does, nothing changes that. If a good week goes by, or even a good few weeks where Abbacchio is sober – they're always followed up by bad days.

That's to be expected. Not every day can be a good one, after all, but dammit if Buccellati isn't _tired_ of this cycle.

And he _hates_ that he doesn't have enough patience.

The only thing he can do is stick around. Make sure Abbacchio doesn't give himself alcohol poisoning – _again_ – or wallow for too many days in a row. Sometimes he hauls Abbacchio to the shower. Makes him eat something. Throws out all of his secret alcohol stashes, and the not-so-secret ones. Cleans his apartment.

Today, though, Buccellati leaves things be. His legs are too leaden to stand on, and his insides are iced over.

That bottle of wine is still there, clutched in Abbacchio's hand in an almost taunting way. Reminding Buccellati that he must be failing on some level, for all of this to wind up back to square one so soon.

What a _selfish thought_ –

He leans forward and snatches the bottle out of Abbacchio's grip. Then he brings it to his lips, tilts back, and drinks deeply. Whatever this is, it's too bitter. Something you drink to get drunk off of because it's cheap, not something you drink for the flavor.

Abbacchio is staring at him with wide eyes.

Buccellati downs over half of what's left, until he has to come up for air. "What?" he asks those stunned, shining eyes that suddenly can't look away from him. "I'm finishing this."

"Do whatever you want," Abbacchio snarls, his face scrunching on a scowl.

So Buccellati does just that. Sucks down the rest of the wine, no matter how sour it settles in his stomach. When he's done he lets the bottle hit the floor and roll away under the coffee table; he'll throw it away properly later.

Long minutes stuffed with heavy silence pass. Buccellati feels _barely_ buzzed. The wine did nothing at all to help his mood, and the lingering taste in his mouth is vile besides.

He's tired and hot and he _can't do this_, but he has to pull himself together, soon.

Abbacchio is lying there. His mouth is trembling again, and his eyes are focused upward, suspiciously wet when he mumbles, "I'm trying, you know."

Buccellati's stomach ties itself in a thousand knots all at once. His heart aches in his chest. An overwhelming sense of guilt near strong enough to bowl him over hits, and he clenches his hands into tight fists.

"I know."


	21. Vacation

**A/N:** Day 21: Vacation

Dads AU feat. five small children.  
Domestic...nonsense...

* * *

"Do you mind putting Giorno down for his nap?" Bruno asks, busy wiping off Trish's tiny hands, while the rest of their brood (minus Giorno, of course) runs amok in the background. "I'll wrangle the rest of them."

Leone is a step away from falling asleep where he sits, and was previously pondering when he should intervene with the couch jumping, because someone is liable to lose their lunch soon – or an eye or some shit – if they keep going wild like that.

But Bruno's offer of a quiet escape is wildly appealing. And it comes along with that knowing sort of glint in his eye, which means he's noticed that Leone is nearing the end of his fragile patience.

Still. Three rambunctious tots plus one pudgy baby is a lot for just Bruno to handle, so Leone double checks.

"You sure?"

"Mhm," Bruno assures, with another charming sideways glance across the table. "If I need help, I'll call you – but I think they'll settle down just fine."

That's a bold assumption he's making.

Then again, the gremlins _do_ tend to listen to him better than they do Leone. Which is annoying as hell but comes in handy in situations like these, when Leone's energy wanes and Bruno is even more of a godsend than usual.

"Okay, then." Shoving to his feet, Leone gathers Giorno – who's nothing more than a cherubic blob with dark hair and big turquoise eyes – from his high chair, and cradles him close. "Your funeral."

Bruno swats at him as he passes, but there's no real heat behind it. And he's _laughing_; a pretty sound amongst the wind and the waves and their screaming children and wow Leone is in _so_ deep. Being tired doesn't help.

It's okay, though. Vacations are for relaxing.

Or. They _were_, before the whole _let's adopt five entire kids what could possibly go wrong_, thing. Now vacations are mostly for wrestling sunscreen onto a handful of tiny writhing creatures that demand to be tossed into the ocean or buried in the sand or given ice cream. Sometimes all of those at once. (And then he and Bruno have to do their best to explain why that's not possible, Narancia, nor is it safe.)

That's not to say that vacations these days aren't just as fun. They're just that much more exhausting.

At least kids' clothes are so little that they can share a suitcase. Leone doesn't want to think about the hassle of luggage when they all get older…though it might be a fair trade-off for a quiet car ride…

Oh well. As it is, they're still small enough that, as a family, they can squeeze into two bedrooms in this rented beach house. The three oldest – who are currently getting into a pillow fight with the couch cushions, by the sound of it – share, and the two youngest room with Bruno and Leone.

These are the _quiet_ ones (when they aren't crying for something), and Leone's personal favorites right this exact second.

Their room is where he should deposit Giorno, rock him to sleep and sing to him and all because he likes that shit, and then maybe Leone can put _himself_ down for a nap, and hope that Bruno can handle the rest.

But…something a bit more appealing than rented bedrooms catches Leone's eye on his way past the patio doors. Something down the beach a little ways.

So he hefts Giorno in his arms and murmurs, "Don't tell Padre," into a squishy cheek.

Giorno makes a tiny series of noises as if he understands that he's been sworn to secrecy, and tangles a small fist in Leone's hair.

Vacations can still be relaxing, dammit. This is Leone's motivation for slipping out of the beach house and onto the sand, making a beeline for a small grouping of trees. They offer a tempting patch of shade from the blinding early afternoon sun – and in said patch of shade, a hammock hangs. Situated right in the path of the ocean breeze.

It's calm, it's quiet, and it's private enough that Leone deems it an acceptable naptime location. So without further ado, he collapses into the hammock, taking Giorno along with him, pressed to his chest.

The hammock sways, some, but steadies after a moment. The movement is calming, anyway.

Seems like Giorno also finds all of this agreeable. Cuddling down into Leone's t-shirt as he is, and all. Closing his eyes.

Leone curls an arm beneath Giorno to help him stay in place, and once he's sure he won't lose a child to the sand, he lets all of the remaining tension drain from his body.

This is _nice_.

Tropical scenery all around as he dozes off with the best-behaved of all their children as his only company…

"Don't tell the others," Leone mumbles, ruffling Giorno's hair, "but you're my favorite little brat."

_All_ of them are his favorites, in actuality (no matter how much Pannacotta stomps his tiny foot and insists that's impossible), but there's no better napping companion than Giorno. He settles down easily, most of the time, and thank fuck today is no different.

It's a far cry from last night, when everyone had been way too excited about the first night of vacation to sleep. Everyone meaning _the kids_, of course, and instead of sleeping, he and Bruno were forced to stay awake, too. Giving out way too many bedtime stories and glasses of water while fending off one too many tantrums.

No actual rest took place. And now Bruno has tasked Leone with putting Giorno for a nap. So surely he won't mind if Leone tags along. If he maybe just shuts his eyes for a second…surely Bruno expects this to happen…

"Papà! Gio!"

The sudden appearance of that squeaky voice is accompanied by the hammock dipping to one side, and Leone reopens his eyes to raise both eyebrows at the mess of dark hair and freckles next to him. Looks like someone escaped Bruno's naptime wrangling.

"Yes, Narancia?"

"Me, too," Narancia decides, and promptly starts to try and haul himself aboard the hammock. "I wanna get on the ham'k, too."

"Hammock," Leone says, on reflex.

"Ham'k."

Close enough. Grabbing onto one tiny arm as tiny hands grab onto him, Leone helps Narancia climb his way into the hammock, and wraps an arm around him as he snuggles in. Makes himself right at home.

After a half-second of silence, Narancia tips his head up and asks, "Can we swing?"

"No. It's naptime."

Narancia's nose scrunches up, and he considers. He's probably trying to be extra adorable in the hopes that Leone will promise that they can swing _after_, but Leone's no fool – he knows if he promises that, then Narancia will only pretend to sleep for a few minutes before opening his eyes and demanding swings.

It's what happened last year, after all.

"Okay," Narancia acquiesces. How sweet of him.

What the hell did Bruno do, to mellow him out this much?

…Maybe Narancia's just on a well-behaved streak.

(Hah. Not likely.)

All that matters is that he's settling down, though, and so Leone feels safe enough to do the same. Now both kids look to be on their way to dreamland, and he's well on his way to joining them – right up until there's a scuffing in the sand, and he has to crack an eye open to check on the disturbance.

"Hello, Panni."

Pannacotta pulls his signature impressive frown. The one that Bruno always – _incorrectly_ – jokes that he learned from watching Leone.

Trying to persuade him to use his words while he's in a mood could upset this whole nap operation, and anyway, Leone can guess what he wants.

"Would you like to come up on the hammock?"

A terse nod (Leone didn't even know children could nod tersely until he met this one), and then Pannacotta grabs onto the weathered netting. He pulls himself up with minimal help from Leone and heads for Leone's other side. Crawling across all of the bodies in his way to get there. Which is bound to cause –

"Ow!" Narancia complains. "Papà, he kicked me!"

That. Which will inevitably be followed up by:

"I did not!"

"You did!"

_That_.

Well. The peace was nice while it lasted. Leone sighs as the back and forth of, "Did not!" "Did!" rinses and repeats for a few rounds. He wonders if they'll just wear themselves out – sometimes they do, Bruno doesn't know, but Leone has experimented – but this time it only seems to be escalating.

Plus, Giorno is squirming against Leone's chest, making some altogether unhappy sounds, and if he starts fussing then _none_ of them will get a proper nap.

"Not my fault your fat head was –"

"Settle down, you little shits," Leone intervenes on a mutter.

It works, if only as a distraction. Because now they're giggling at the swear word, but at least no one is shouting insults, so Leone counts it as a step in the right direction.

Even when Narancia repeats, "Shit," in his tiny voice, and snickers at his oh-so-clever humor.

"I'm telling Padre," Panni threatens, even though he's laughing right along with Narancia, his face buried between Leone's arm and the hammock.

"No," Leone says, "you're sleeping."

"I'll tell after."

"You will not."

"Will to."

"Shit!" Narancia chimes in.

Leone rolls his eyes as they dissolve into another fit of giggling. He is not at all tempted to laugh along, and his mouth does not form a smile without his consent. If it weren't for Giorno scrunching up his face, Leone might let this carry on – as it is, though, it's time for peace and quiet.

"Shh," he soothes, to Giorno and the other two brats alike. Rubbing at Giorno's back is enough to banish the grumpy expression from that chubby face. It goes all angelic again in no time.

By some similar miracle, Narancia and Panni are quiet now, too.

…Albeit after shushing each other back and forth for a few seconds. Whatever works.

This round of hard won peace lasts for a few minutes at most. What hauls Leone from sleep's edge next is an audible gasp, followed by feet sprinting over sand, and he wrenches his eyes open just in time to spot Guido hurrying toward them.

He launches himself at the hammock, landing heavy on Leone's shins (_ow_ – it just _had_ to be their oldest –) and setting the whole hammock into a violent sway.

Narancia squawks, and four sets of little hands clutch at Leone to keep from falling into the sand below – he manages to finagle a leg free, and stops their movement by bracing his foot on the ground, slowing everything back to normal.

Against his chest, Giorno is whimpering, so Leone murmurs soft words of apology on behalf of his hellion brothers (though he fears Giorno will grow up much the same).

"What was that for?!" Panni grouches, riled right up. Extra grumpy because he's tired. Wonderful.

"There were four of you on the hammock!" Guido shrieks, until Leone shushes him. He then continues at a much softer volume. "I couldn't let there be four of you on the hammock."

Rocking Giorno as best he can, Leone can appreciate the sentiment. "Thank you, Guido," he murmurs, hoping to deescalate the situation with soft words. Something that always comes easy to Bruno, but eludes Leone though he _does his best_. "But next time –"

Panni, though, seems to be against things deescalating. "Yeah thanks for nothing you –"

"What's going on out here?"

Oh thank god. That's the voice of Leone's salvation, and sure enough Bruno hovers into view, then, standing beside the hammock with a wide-eyed Trish in his arms. She looks tired, tiny eyelids drooping on heavy blinks and a tiny fist in her tiny mouth.

"Naptime," Leone answers.

Because that's what's _supposed_ to be going on out here. So far only Giorno is really cooperating, and that is no fault of Leone's. He was only tasked with Giorno, after all. Everyone else is out of his jurisdiction. Technically speaking.

"Padre," Panni says, sitting up on his knees and making the hammock sway some despite Leone's anchor, "Papà said shit and so did Narancia."

There's a squeak of protest from Narancia, who is now also trying to get up and defend his honor.

"Oh dear." Bruno feigns surprise, and quells Narancia's fretting with a hand in his hair. "Thank you for telling me, Panni," he says, sparing a hard look for Leone before moving on to ruffle Panni's hair. Unfair.

Fortunately, Giorno interrupts injustice with a soft, "Nn," sound. It's as close to words as he gets, and it's adorable as hell.

"What he said," Leone agrees.

"But he didn't say nothing," Guido argues, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"He didn't say _anything_," Bruno corrects.

"Yes he did," Leone corrects, too, but a different and more important aspect. "He said it's naptime."

A sappy, fond expression eases onto Bruno's face, then – and it's somehow even more blinding than the sunlight that's filtering through the trees, but Leone can't take his eyes off of it.

Bruno leans in close, bending over the hammock so that he can press his lips to Leone's forehead. God. The contact is so soft that Leone could fall asleep right that second, with warm fingers brushing hair out of his face, and a gentle kiss landing on his temple next. His eyelashes flutter at the feel of it.

"Me, too!" Narancia demands.

So with a soft puff of laughter, Bruno lifts away from Leone's face, and distributes a round of forehead kisses to everyone present. And then another. They're in high demand, today.

"Is there room for us?" Bruno asks, once everyone has received a satisfactory amount of smooches (Leone could go for a few more, actually, but now isn't the time to ask for them). "Papà's right, it's naptime."

"Yeah! Yeah, Padre, here!" Scrambling atop Leone's stomach, Narancia frees up his previously occupied spot, which is Narancia-sized and therefore small.

To compensate, Leone moves over as best he can, and Panni and Guido shift to help make room until there's a more Bruno-sized gap beside Leone. Slow and careful and pressed against Leone's side, Bruno settles in, bringing Trish along with him.

Leone wraps an arm around Bruno, and the kids squeeze in around them. On top of and between them and all. Giorno keeps his perch atop Leone's chest, and Trish stays nestled to Bruno's. Narancia is squished between them and sprawled atop them all at once, Panni is hugging Leone's other arm, and Guido is tangled lower, around their legs.

Now is a fine time to ask, but the hammock is creaking ominously and so Leone wonders, "…Can this thing hold all of us?" There's no ruder awakening than being dumped on your ass, after all.

Bruno hums in confirmation, and he's close enough to kiss Leone's cheek, this time. "It's sturdy."

And Leone has half a mind to protest, but it seems like Bruno is even more tired than he is, because he's already starting to drift off. His body is lax, his breathing deep, and their kids are starting to follow his example, one at a time.

What the hell…?

What kind of bizarre calming magic does he have that Leone doesn't?

…Oh well. Whatever it is, it works on Leone, too, so he doesn't have room to complain. Not when he's got his entire family tangled too-warm around him, and is fast succumbing to sleep at last.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	22. Tired

**A/N:** Day 22: Tired

* * *

It happens quicker than Abbacchio can blink.

One second, he's taking a seat in the railcar – toward the back so no one will bother him as he's wont to do whenever stuck on public transportation – and Buccellati is sitting next to him, his posture prim and perfect as always.

And in the next second…

Buccellati's posture becomes significantly _less_ than prim and perfect. He slumps to the side, his head landing pillowed on Abbacchio's shoulder, body sinking into Abbacchio's. Warm and kind of heavy but in an entirely pleasant way, and Abbacchio barely manages not to startle. Because _what the hell_.

After a few beats spent stuck in shock, he gathers himself and looks down at Buccellati in time to spot his eyelids fluttering closed. Within moments, as Abbacchio watches, Buccellati is fast asleep, his breathing deep and even and relaxed.

A quick glance around the car shows that it's practically barren and no one is eavesdropping, and then Abbacchio goes right back to watching Buccellati with something akin to wonder.

Sure, his shoulders have been drooping all day (no matter how hard he fought to square them), and he was stifling an awful lot of yawns at breakfast, but this is…

This has to be a world record or something. _No one_ can fall asleep on a dime like this, without going through the delicate nodding off process first – though, maybe (probably) Buccellati already did that part during their walk here.

Unless he passed out. That's possible.

Abbacchio shifts his shoulder to check, and is rewarded with Buccellati cozying up further, so nope, not unconscious. Definitely just fell asleep with inhuman speed. In public. Very much sagging against Abbacchio. So lax that when Abbacchio shifts very, very carefully to lean on the cool glass of the window, Buccellati moves with him. Sinks ever-further against Abbacchio, melting into his side and – and nestling in.

God. Abbacchio's heart flips over itself at least twice, and his stomach is now host to a bunch of ricocheting marbles, or something equally as frantic.

This is going to be the longest ten minutes of his life.

Because of course there's no way he's waking Buccellati up – the thought barely crosses his mind for a second before he dismisses it. Short though this trip may be, Buccellati deserves to spend every last measly second of it _resting_.

They're not going anywhere dangerous, and anyway if anything happens to happen, Abbacchio is fully capable of protecting Buccellati.

So impromptu naptime it is.

The railcar starts heading downhill, and Abbacchio reflexively wraps an arm around Buccellati's back so he doesn't go slipping out of his seat.

…Which winds up not feeling secure enough, so Abbacchio sends his other arm around front, and, great, now he's got Buccellati wrapped in an entire sideways hug and he's _blushing_.

Once the ride smooths out as much as it's going to, he relaxes his hold into something he hopes is more casual (but still comfortable). Somehow, Buccellati has remained asleep through all the jostling and Abbacchio's clumsy handling. He must _really_ be tired. Not surprising, because knowing him he was _hiding_ just how bad he felt – but the thought still sends the marbles in Abbacchio's stomach ricocheting all over again.

At least the chronically stressed and serious lines of Buccellati's face are smoothed over in sleep for now.

Though, the way the railcar jerks to a jagged stop threatens to _ruin that_ –

Abbacchio barely manages to avoid cussing out the driver when Buccellati starts to shift and his brow starts to scrunch, but that would only cause more of a disturbance. So he sits still and quiet. Leaves his arms where they are. Holding Buccellati…

After an agonizing handful of seconds during which things could go either way, Buccellati starts to resettle. He sighs deep through his nose, cheek pressing back to Abbacchio's shoulder on a nuzzle.

Oh, hell. Abbacchio's heart is going to explode.

It's spared by some university student with a heavy backpack boarding the railcar. They're wandering the length of the car, headed for the back, so Abbacchio schools his expression into the sharpest glare he's got until they change their mind and pick a seat toward the front.

The railcar sets off again, and fuck that student for distracting Abbacchio because there goes Buccellati's head lolling off of his shoulder before he can stop it –

And Buccellati jerks awake, his eyelids blinking heavy at their surroundings. At the railcar, at the other passengers, at Abbacchio's arm wrapped around his chest. His eyes follow the length of said arm until they reach Abbacchio's face. Which is a predicament and a half. There's no way he misses the vibrant blush settled there.

Abbacchio reclaims the arm he has around Buccellati's front, watching Buccellati watch it go. He has no idea how to explain himself.

"I'm sorry," Buccellati says, and it's not at all necessary but Abbacchio isn't about to say that out loud with real actual words. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's fine," Abbacchio assures. Less than half of what he'd like to say, but he's distracted by the small, stupid detail that is the word choice of 'didn't mean to _fall asleep_' potentially implying that the cuddling against Abbacchio part that came first was fully intentional.

There's a sigh from Buccellati, and noteworthy is the fact that he hasn't fully sat up on his own yet. He's still leaning on Abbacchio when he frowns and admits, "I haven't been getting much sleep."

Well there go those fucking marbles again. Spinning so fast they manifest as something close to nerves or _worry_. Because in Buccellati speak, that translates to: I have been running myself ragged as all hell.

Which, yeah, is nothing new when it comes to Buccellati. He _always_ works too hard. It's a chronic issue of his – but he's never just gone ahead and dropped right off to sleep the second his body stopped moving. At least not as far as Abbacchio knows. Plus, the fact that he all but admitted to being too tired to function is a telltale sign that this is worse than usual.

So Abbacchio dares to ask, "Why not?"

Buccellati makes some kind of noncommittal noise that turns into a muffled yawn, covered by his hand. "Night missions."

"How many?"

"Abbacchio," is all Buccellati says. It's all he has to say. This part is officially none of Abbacchio's business.

What _is_ Abbacchio's business, however, is the soft, sleepy shape of Buccellati at his side right now. "You need to rest," he insists, for all the good it'll do. It's not like Buccellati has _ever_ taken this advice to heart before.

True to form, Buccellati dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. "You should've woken me sooner."

Yet here he is! _Still_ leaning on Abbacchio! Saying absolutely nothing about the arm wrapped secure over his shoulders! (Which, thank fuck for that, because Abbacchio isn't ready to acknowledge their position or any deeper meanings that go along with it right now.)

"You should've slept longer," he argues.

"I'm fine," Buccellati continues to insist, even though exhaustion is plain on his face and every single line of his entire body.

"You won't be, if you keep…" Ugh. Abbacchio bites his tongue. Buccellati is _looking_ at him, head tipped up to show off sad blue eyes, so Abbacchio tightens his arm around those strong, sagging shoulders. He can't keep eye contact, in the end. "If you keep this up, you'll get sick. Or you'll just fucking fall over on the job one day."

He can _feel_ Buccellati's eyes on him, and it's making his cheeks go hot. It only worsens the longer he looks away, so he hauls his gaze back, and –

There's a tiny smile twitched to life on Buccellati's face. "You're worried about me…?"

Shit. Fuck. That's wreaking absolute havoc on Abbacchio's blush, and on those stupid marbles. This can't be allowed to continue. Of _course_ he's worried, god. "Just – just take a nap. It won't kill you. We're stuck here for five more minutes anyway."

He fully expects Buccellati to argue. To keep right on proclaiming that he's not tired and that he's fine, or even poke more fun at Abbacchio as a distraction tactic, an attempt to turn the tables…

But. That's not what happens.

Buccellati presses against him, instead. Settles in nice and comfortable there as his body goes lax all over again and his cheek comes to rest on Abbacchio's shoulder and he breathes him in and says, "Alright."

_Alright_, of all things. Casual, like he does this daily and this isn't the first time _ever_ that he's openly agreed to rest.

Concern spikes alongside affection, so excuse Abbacchio for being caught without words for a disproportionate amount of time. All of the arguments he had prepared are useless, now, stored for later use while he scrambles for something – _anything_ else to say in their place, but Buccellati beats him to it.

"If you're this worried," he mumbles, closing his eyes and _slipping an arm around Abbacchio's waist_ so that he can cuddle _closer_, "then I can't refuse."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading...!


	23. Dance With Me

**A/N:** Day 23: Dance With Me

* * *

There's music coming from inside Buccellati's apartment.

It's a casual indulgence, maybe, but this isn't a track that Abbacchio recognizes. Which could mean anything, of course, but Buccellati has his favorites, and Abbacchio knows at least those.

And. When he knocked a few minutes ago, there was no answer.

There wasn't one a few seconds ago, either.

Nor is there one right now.

Buccellati always answers – or, at least, he has the few times that Abbacchio's dared to come calling…which is something that's been happening more often than usual, and for more casual reasons. Abbacchio feels a thrill of _something_ at that thought, but also _right now._ Right now, he's worried.

That Buccellati is asleep would be the best explanation, with him being buried in work a close second. Buried in work is unlikely, though, given that Buccellati isn't the type to need music to focus.

If he's asleep, on the other hand, it's very definitely by accident. Because it's only late afternoon, and Buccellati never naps – almost never goes to bed at a reasonable hour, even. So if he's asleep in there, it's likely that he's in an uncomfortable position or location or both.

…And if, by any chance, there's some _other_ reason that Buccellati isn't answering…

Well. Whatever the case, Abbacchio deems no answer for the fourth time probable cause. He's been lurking out here long enough, so he reaches into his pocket for the spare key that Buccellati gave him (the existence of which still sends him into an internal frenzy if he thinks about it for too long, so he tries not to dwell on it).

Abbacchio lets himself in, and without the thin wooden barrier of the door this unfamiliar music is a couple steps shy of deafening.

Yeah. This is definitely strange. Buccellati never plays his music this loud. It's something Miles Davis, Abbacchio guesses, because it sounds vaguely familiar, but it's definitely not one of the usual ones…

Toeing his shoes off, Abbacchio follows the noise to the living room, where Buccellati's secondhand record player lives.

Buccellati is there, sitting on the couch.

He's awake, but. The sight of him isn't exactly reassuring.

His posture is defeated, shoulders bowed inward and head tipped down. His hands are tangled together in his lap, feet angled toward each other. He seems small, curled in on himself like that, and Abbacchio's chest tightens at the sight. It only gets _worse_, the longer he lingers here staring. Buccellati's expression is blank in a way that Abbacchio's never seen it before. His eyes are worn and weathered and empty.

In the background, one music track melts into the next, and Abbacchio's hands twitch with a desire to do _something_.

"Bruno," he tries. His voice sounds weak against the music.

Dull blue eyes lift from where they're staring into nothing to meet Abbacchio's. There's an overwhelming vat of something painful in their depths, too buried for Abbacchio to puzzle out exactly what it is. But it _hurts_ to look at.

Buccellati doesn't say anything. He tries to, Abbacchio thinks, but his mouth falls shut without a sound.

"Are you alright?"

A weighty pause, followed by a stiff nod.

Why does Buccellati even bother to try and keep up appearances behind lies this flimsy? And, for that matter, why the hell does Abbacchio keep giving him the chance to do just that? No reason at all, beyond his own cowardice, and so this time he forges on, spurred by that horrible, empty expression.

"Did something happen?"

Buccellati's eyes blink slow, and shift away. His hands twitch, squeezing at each other as he stays tightlipped. "It's nothing for you to worry about."

Something in Abbacchio's heart cracks. Starts to bleed.

He wants to demand answers. To force Buccellati to tell him what's got him looking so fucking sad – wants Buccellati to _trust him_ – but the unnaturally fragile shape of Buccellati kills frustration as fast as it manifests. All that's left are the pieces irritated with his own useless floundering.

"Are you sure?"

With a heavy sigh, Buccellati's shoulders sag further under the weight of the world (that he just _won't share_). "Please drop it, Leone."

The idea of leaving this alone doesn't sit well with Abbacchio in any way.

But Buccellati is turning away, avoiding eye contact and leaning an elbow on the couch's arm. He props his temple on his fist, eyes downcast. He doesn't send Abbacchio away, but he doesn't say anything more, either.

For a long while, he just _sits_ there. Lax and devastated on the couch.

And Abbacchio _stands_ here. Feels kind of like falling apart and kind of like sitting beside Buccellati and kind of like running away – but in the end his feet are stuck fast to the floor.

Leaving doesn't feel right. Falling apart wouldn't help. Sitting beside Buccellati would be…

Abbacchio doesn't belong here. He shouldn't be here, witnessing this.

Buccellati won't let him in – has _never_ let him in – and this is by far the worst case of upset that Abbacchio's ever seen him mired in. Going over there to comfort him is his kneejerk response, but that closed off posture and the sheer dread hanging in the air combine to keep him rooted to the spot.

"I'll be fine," Buccellati says, out of nowhere. His voice is so soft that Abbacchio nearly misses it.

And, fuck, maybe he will be, but he's _not_ right now – and a lot of good that thought does stuck in Abbacchio's head instead of tumbling out of his mouth as some semblance of…of _something_.

Buccellati shouldn't feel like he has to say that. He shouldn't feel the need to be the one to offer reassurance when he feels this bad, just because Abbacchio is panicking at his own redundancy.

Words won't work, though. Abbacchio doesn't have any in mind that feel powerful enough for this situation. The music croons on in the background all the while, an odd sort of counter to the messy melancholic feelings that flood the room. Or maybe it adds to the atmosphere. Abbacchio isn't sure. It doesn't really matter, but…

It gives him an idea. A weird, out of place one that pulls his feet forward before he can decide if it's any good. He's already hesitated enough today.

Shoving down the urge to overthink it, Abbacchio steps up and offers a hand to Buccellati.

"Dance with me?" he asks, because at least that would be better than wasting away on the couch. He thinks. Feels kind of dumb standing here, and hates that those are the only words he can manage to get out instead of anything useful, _but_.

It's all he's got.

Buccellati blinks at the proffered hand, and then at Abbacchio. His eyes are just as dull as before, and he stares for so long that Abbacchio again contemplates fleeing this apartment entirely. The maintained eye contact keeps him here, dismal though those eyes are.

And then, slowly, Buccellati reaches out. His fingers brush Abbacchio's palm, and then his hand closes around Abbacchio's, and he allows himself to be helped to his feet.

They're standing close, now. Just a single step apart.

There's a shimmer of something in Buccellati's eyes. Some not-quite-formed emotion, maybe, pushing against the blankness and fighting to surface – or maybe it's being forcibly dampened. Abbacchio doesn't pretend to be an expert on feelings, and he certainly doesn't pretend to be an expert on Buccellati, but whatever the case he should probably get moving before this mess of an interaction gets even worse.

Trying as hard as he can to bury any apprehension or nerves, Abbacchio rests one tentative palm on Buccellati's waist – his hand is _shaking_ –

And Buccellati sinks against him. He melts right in, pressing his face into Abbacchio's shoulder and winding his arms around tight and _holy shit_ Abbacchio's heart is hammering.

He isn't cut out for this.

But he wraps Buccellati in his arms, anyway. He's not about to _reject_ this, and right, yeah, they're supposed to be dancing. Some kind of gentle sway is all they can manage, as wound together as they are, but Abbacchio refuses to loosen his hold any, and Buccellati's hands are clinging tight to his clothes, so this will have to do.

It's in some kind of rhythm, at least. Still counts as dancing, probably. Even though Abbacchio is biting back on the urge to _cry_. Which is the most counterproductive reaction he can think of.

He doesn't mention it when Buccellati starts to tremble in his arms. Just holds him all the tighter and hopes it'll be enough.

* * *

**A/N:** Inspired by that scene in PHF, where Buccellati finds out about the drugs and has Fugo put on that record he doesn't like and then wallows alone...

Sorry it's a little late, had some errands to run,

Thanks for reading!


	24. Scream

**A/N:** Day 24: Scream

* * *

Abbacchio has woken up screaming from enough nightmares to know one when he sees it from the outside.

Not that Buccellati is screaming – he's quiet, despite the way his mouth is trembling, and his body is tensed on the bed as he shifts around, tossing his head. His breath comes faster, and his bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat.

Instead of sitting useless next to him, Abbacchio should do something. Probably should have done something the second he woke up to Buccellati's thrashing and muttering, but in his defense, his heart is in some kind of panic because he's never seen Buccellati like this.

Not like he's ever really had the opportunity to. They don't share a room – or share a _bed_ – all that often, and right, yeah, Abbacchio should wake him up and alleviate those distressed whimpers already.

He reaches out a careful hand, resting it on Buccellati's shoulder. It's warm under his palm, through the fabric of Buccellati's t-shirt. Abbacchio gives a gentle shake, and then another when Buccellati stays steadfastly asleep in nightmare-land.

"Buccellati," he whispers. Shakes one last time, more vigorously, and Buccellati jerks awake at last.

Gasping and staring wide-eyed at Abbacchio, he starts to come back to himself. The tension in his wound-taut muscles evaporates a little more with each steadying breath he takes.

Despite his slowly relaxing posture, he stays quiet and still for a good minute or two, his eyes locked with Abbacchio's. All the while, Abbacchio doesn't let go of his shoulder. His hand is stuck there, as he hovers over Buccellati. Awkward and too-close and unable to look away.

"Are you okay?" Abbacchio asks, when he can't stand the silence paired with the weight of Buccellati's gaze anymore.

Buccellati doesn't answer. He doesn't so much as nod or shake his head or shrug. His expression is neutral as he sits up and brushes Abbacchio's hand off of his shoulder before leaving the bed entirely. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, and Abbacchio watches him go.

Realizing that his hand is still raised, paused where that shoulder was a second ago, Abbacchio lowers it and tries to ignore the weird pang in his chest.

Should he follow…? That might be an intrusion, right?

But Buccellati left the door open, and there's only the sound of running water coming from inside, so. Maybe it wouldn't be.

Then again. What could Abbacchio do, besides gracelessly barge in on all the messy feelings that (he's recently discovered) Buccellati keeps meticulously hidden. Nightmares undoubtedly fall into that category, and nightmare aftermath along with them.

It's getting harder to just sit still, the longer that water runs.

…Wanting to check on Buccellati shouldn't be intruding too much. He'll kick Abbacchio out, if he really doesn't want company. He's done it before.

Throwing aside the covers, Abbacchio throws caution right along with them and crosses the room. The plush hotel carpet gives way to the cold bathroom tile, and there's Buccellati. Standing at the sink, washing his hands – or maybe just rubbing them together under the faucet. Hard to tell.

In the dark, it's hard to spot any hint of expression on his face, but he seems pretty damn concentrated on his hands. Lost in thought, or something like that.

Abbacchio knows the feeling of being trapped in your own head all too well. And that sure as hell is what this looks like, in his professional opinion. He keeps his distance and stands just inside the door, though. Doesn't dare step closer for fear of _over_stepping.

"Buccellati," he says, after a moment, when the hand-washing has carried on too long. His voice is at odds with the dull silence and splash of water.

It seems to snap Buccellati out of his trance, at least. He blinks, and tosses a quick glance in Abbacchio's direction.

Then it's right back to staring at his hands as he cups them under the faucet, gathering water in his palms to splash his face with. He does this three times, and on the third he leaves his hands pressed to his face, water dripping between his fingers and down his arms.

Abbacchio bites his tongue on an errant _are you okay_ that tries to escape. He already asked that, and he didn't get an answer – there's no reason to believe the response would be different this time.

(Besides, it's an obvious _no_. Whether or not Buccellati admits it.)

So he stays by the door. Not saying anything. Not moving. Not being of any help.

The sink's still running. Buccellati's shoulders quake on a heaved sigh, and then he straightens up, his hands dragging up over his face and back through the length of his hair as he moves. It leaves his sopping wet bangs sticking up in places, and sends water droplets running down his face.

He swears under his breath, and then turns the faucet off at last. Spares a second to frown at the mirror. Reaches up and readjusts his bangs – then thinks better of it and grabs for a towel.

As Abbacchio stands and watches, Buccellati dries off his face before making another attempt at fixing his bangs. He's quiet, but that's nothing unusual. He doesn't seem any worse for wear on the outside, except for his semi-sluggish mannerisms.

But when he turns to Abbacchio there's something _off_ about his expression. A downward pull at the corners of his mouth that's not quite a frown. A tired tint to his eyes that are shining even in the dark of the bathroom.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Abbacchio asks. Because Buccellati sure isn't moving.

Again, it seems like he's snapped Buccellati out of something. With a curt nod, he breezes past Abbacchio and back into the hotel bedroom.

God – what the hell is Abbacchio doing? It's obvious that Buccellati doesn't want to be bothered about this, so Abbacchio should've never followed him in here in the first place…

By the time he picks all of his mixed feelings up off of the floor to gather them into an uncomfortable, squirming ball in his gut and follows, Buccellati is already in bed. He's lying on his side, facing away from Abbacchio's half.

Careful to keep his mouth zipped shut, Abbacchio climbs into bed. Settles with his back to Buccellati's, mirroring him. For safety.

…This is awkward. Even more so than earlier, when they first discovered the one bed predicament, and even more so than when they crawled into it together.

The silence now is overbearing, thick with some kind of tension that Abbacchio can't place but makes his stomach twist. He toys with the idea of telling Buccellati that there's nothing to be ashamed of, that showing a small piece of vulnerability only makes him human – but he doubts it would help. And he wouldn't have the courage to actually _say_ it, anyway.

So they're just. Staying here. In this stifling atmosphere.

Neither of them are going to get any sleep at this rate. Abbacchio knows that he, at least, doesn't feel even the slightest bit tired anymore, and a glance over his shoulder reveals the tense set of Buccellati's back.

"…Do you want to talk about it?"

Buccellati's back goes even tenser, and his head moves, shifting on what might be a shake. "Just go back to sleep, Abbacchio."

And that's – that sets off an indignant spark in Abbacchio's chest – he's defensive and nervous all at once, and it's clear that Buccellati is _bothered_ by whatever he was dreaming about, and he'd sure as hell pester or comfort Abbacchio if their roles were reversed.

And so _therefore_: "I will when you do."

Buccellati sighs. Sharp and quick. "It's nothing."

Like hell it's nothing. Staring over his shoulder like this is starting to hurt Abbacchio's neck, so he rolls over properly, until his front is facing Buccellati's back. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Well, that's good for him. Abbacchio, for his part, is not at all sure. Not with the way Buccellati is lying there all stiff, with his legs curled up toward his chest and his arms wrapped loose around himself. The ends of his hair and the collar of his shirt are still damp.

He remembers the sad set of Buccellati's mouth, and the look in his eyes as he zoned out – and this isn't Abbacchio's place at all but he can't just lie here.

So he ignores the panicked squirming in his stomach that says this is a horrible idea, crosses the line between their halves of the bed, and wraps an arm snug around Buccellati's waist.

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, and his body doesn't quite stiffen, but nor does it relax just yet, "what are you doing?"

Part of Abbacchio's mind is wondering the exact same thing, arguing violently with the side that's keeping him here and urging him closer to Buccellati. "It – it helps keep the nightmares away."

"You know this for a fact?" There's something _light_ to that tone, and it calms the storm that Abbacchio's insides have become, just a _little_.

…The effect doubles when Buccellati starts to relax, settling in against Abbacchio's chest.

"Yes," Abbacchio lies, because technically this is an untested theory based on his own lonesome wants when he's woken up screaming, but no way is he about to admit that, not when Buccellati is being cagey about feelings. He tightens his arm around Buccellati's waist. "Trust me."

Buccellati hums, as tension leaks from him in tangible waves, still more leaving him on a deep sigh. And he lies there content (and hopefully oblivious to Abbacchio's thundering heart) until he's calmed enough to feasibly fall asleep.

Which is good for him. Abbacchio is doing his best, over here, but it's _hard_, seeing as this is the first time they've cuddled _ever_.

At least it's calming one of them down.

Once Abbacchio's heart is done doing somersaults, he's sure he'll nod off, too. Should be any second now.

Buccellati's hand presses warm atop Abbacchio's arm around his stomach, and his thumb brushes Abbacchio's skin. Gentle and slow. "Thank you," he whispers.

And, god, there's no way the somersaults will stop now.

Humbled and overwhelmed and not actually having been very helpful, Abbacchio mutters, "Of course."

x

Months later, when Abbacchio wakes with a choked off scream, Buccellati's arms find him immediately. Winding around him before he's even fully conscious – while breaths still sting as he gulps them down deep, and he twists in that constricting hold until he recognizes who those arms belong to.

"You're okay," Buccellati says, mouth pressed to Abbacchio's sweaty forehead, "I've got you, you're alright, shh…"

Hell. Abbacchio doesn't even remember what he dreamt. All that's left are snatches of dark, unpleasant things that slip away the more he focuses on Buccellati holding him, and on those fingers running through his hair.

Slowly, his hammering heart tries to return to normal. He feels tears on his cheeks at the same time as Buccellati thumbs them away.

Clinging so tight to him is pathetic and selfish but it helps Abbacchio feel safe – and Buccellati isn't letting go, so Abbacchio doesn't, either. For some reason the heartbeat beneath his cheek is matched in pace to his own, which doesn't make sense, but there's a lot that's foggy right now, so Abbacchio focuses on breathing. On a sturdy hold and careful hands and soft kisses.

"You know," Buccellati murmurs, once Abbacchio is calmer, and his breath is only hitching on every fifth intake or so, "I hear this helps keep nightmares away."

As he talks, he coaxes Abbacchio to lie back down fully without separating them. He cuddles up even closer under the covers, and the warmth spreading through Abbacchio's chest is fast chasing away any residual chills that shake down his spine.

"You know that for a fact?" Abbacchio mumbles, his voice trembling with him.

Buccellati thumbs over Abbacchio's cheek again, following it up with a gentle press of lips. "Yeah," he says, arms wound tight around Abbacchio, "I do."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	25. Goodbyes

**A/N:** Day 25: Goodbyes

Warnings for a brief and vague discussion on the edibility of birds, and casual violent urges via Abbacchio's inner monologue intended for comedic purposes.

Just some, silly nonsense,

* * *

The only thing making this family breakfast bearable is Buccellati's existence. He's sitting next to Abbacchio, thank god, and their knees sometimes bump beneath the table. A show of solidarity that's much-needed in the face of the three misbehaving miscreants across the way.

Not that they're…_horrible_. Or really _misbehaving_, exactly. They just have too much energy for this early in the day, and the only outlet they have for it is an excitable conversation about…Abbacchio's lost track.

It started as a discussion on the origin of coffee, he thinks, and from there spiraled to other edible plants, but now it seems like they're talking about birds that are commonly eaten versus birds that are not commonly eaten and trying to figure out where the distinction lies.

Which is all well and good, except for the way it's aggravating Abbacchio's headache by forcing him to overhear shit like:

"Imagine eating someone's pet bird – like, what the fuck?"

"Cats do it all the time, I think."

"Those are cats, Narancia. That's different."

"What makes eating a canary worse than eating duck, or chicken? It's messed up, but why?"

"Because ducks and chickens are _supposed_ to be eaten."

"Yeah, but _why_?"

"What about seagulls? No one eats those, and they're everywhere."

Ugh. Abbacchio is a step away from slamming his head off the table and proceeding to hide beneath his arms until he passes out from one thing or another.

Buccellati's hand stops him. It pats his thigh with a gentle, soothing touch. Probably in sympathy for the no doubt godawful expression on Abbacchio's face. That palm rests there, a warm and soft anchor that's _just _overwhelming enough to keep Abbacchio grounded. And ease his headache some, as he focuses on that sensation instead – though, it's dangerous to focus on it _too much_. Because the children are present. And all.

That hand leaves his thigh far, far too soon so that Buccellati can use it to finish his coffee, and then the _worst_ happens:

Buccellati stands up, clears his throat, and announces, "I'm heading out for a bit. I have a meeting with Polpo, but you're all free to carry on here until I return."

Now he's _leaving_ (told them to _carry on_ of all sentiments) much to the fanfare of the others with their cheerful goodbyes and energetic waves and promises to hold down the fort (yeah fucking right, Fugo). And Abbacchio is well aware that his grump regarding this turn of events is blatant on his face, but –

But that's no excuse for Buccellati to pause. To bend down and drop a kiss to the top of Abbacchio's head, _right in front of the others_.

"I'll see you later," Buccellati says – to the table or to Abbacchio alone it doesn't much matter –and then he's gone. Just like that.

The peanut gallery has a field day the second he's out the door.

x

Abbacchio is reluctant when Buccellati invites him out for a walk, indecision running rampant for a hot minute because it's cold as hell outside. The world is all frozen-over and unappealing with only a bare dusting of snow to make it kind-of pretty. Venturing out when you don't have to is for absolute weirdos, and Abbacchio wants no part in it.

Except…

Buccellati is _inviting him out_. Spends a few minutes going on and on about how the falling snow is picturesque, and how they haven't had time to _themselves_ lately…

And honestly the fact that it's Buccellati who's asking is enough to seal the deal on its own – but when this is framed as a _date_ –

How the hell is Abbacchio supposed to refuse?

So now he's out in the cold, freezing his ass off. Occasionally brushing shoulders with Buccellati while trying to work up some semblance of the courage required to take hold of his hand.

This personal mission of his is not going well so far. Things could be worse, he supposes. His hands are stagnant in his pockets, yeah, but he's successfully forgotten his gloves, having decided that an excuse to seek out hand holding is worth the potential loss of a few fingers. So step one is down.

…

…Buccellati looks nice, out in the fresh air.

Or, well, nic_er_, because he always looks _nice_, and even _that_ is an understatement but _the point is _that Buccellati is at ease, out here.

The freezing breeze ruffles his bangs and flushes color onto his cheeks, and even though the scenery is dulled by winter, he himself is vibrant. Light on his feet and wearing a permanent almost-smile…it's altogether too much for Abbacchio's heart. Makes it tear open and dump his feelings messy into his stomach. (Which can't be healthy, but it's _fine_.)

It doesn't even matter that they've barely spoken two words to each other since they set foot in this deserted park. Getting to coexist with Buccellati when he's the closest he gets carefree is _more_ than enough.

Now if only Abbacchio could pull himself together and _hold his hand_, things would be perfect.

It's not that hard! Nowhere near a dramatic gesture! Just a simple reach over, and he can tangle his fingers with those gloved ones that keep bumping into his coat sleeve. Buccellati won't turn down the contact, especially under the guise of keeping Abbacchio's hand warm.

They're already a…couple.

_This will be fine_.

All Abbacchio has to do is –

Buccellati steps in close, looping his arm through Abbacchio's in one smooth motion that keeps them locked close together while allowing Abbacchio's hand to stay in his pocket. He leans his bright warmth into Abbacchio's stunned shoulder like this is the easiest thing in the world and says, "Why do you look so grumpy? It's a beautiful day."

"No it isn't." But Buccellati is. "It's cold as fuck." But Abbacchio's face sure is toasty. (And he only looks _grumpy_ because he was having an internal debate over hand holding, but that's settled now. In a way that isn't doing any favors to the wild feelings loose in his stomach, though his scowl is starting to unthaw.)

"Maybe," Buccellati hums, nudging at Abbacchio, and even flashing a small, fleeting smile up at him. One that looks almost _shy_. "But it's not so bad like this, with you."

God-fucking-dammit Abbacchio is going to keel over right here and now – forget the cold; overexposure to Buccellati is what's going to do him in.

He wants to kiss Buccellati, suddenly and more than anything, but considering how he struggled with simple hand holding, there's no way that's happening. All he can do is try not to hide his face in his scarf as he mutters, "You're the warm one."

"Hm?"

"I said you're the one who wanted to come out here."

Buccellati's arm winds tighter around Abbacchio's, and he leans all the closer, properly cuddled up. "Well," he says, ears starting to go red, "we…haven't had time to relax together, just the two of us, so I thought –" He cuts himself off, suddenly. The smile drops from his face in an instant, and he stands frozen still. "Shit."

Abbacchio stops right along with him, panic spiking. "What is it?"

"I forgot…" Buccellati's posture droops along with his expression, before he's able to cover it with his typical rigid businesslike stance. "I'm supposed to meet with Luca this afternoon. He has some kind of complaint."

"Skip it," Abbacchio advises on reflex even as his heart sinks, because he knows Buccellati won't.

Sure enough: "If I do that, he'll go over my head and things will be worse."

Abbacchio has never hated anyone more than he hates Luca in this moment. Has the urge to smash Luca's head in with that damn shovel of his, because Buccellati is checking his watch, and his face is falling into neutral territory. Any carefree edge or shadow of a smile is long gone.

"I can make it if I hurry," Buccellati mutters, while untangling his arm from Abbacchio's, heading out already. "I'll see you later, Leone."

But Abbacchio grabs him. Moves on automatic to clutch at Buccellati's coat sleeve, and now he's just staring into stern blue eyes.

Buccellati, of course, opens his mouth to protest.

But Abbacchio doesn't give him the chance. Before he can think better of it, he darts in and presses a kiss to Buccellati's cheek. When he pulls back, there's a dark smudge of lipstick left in his wake. "See you later, Bruno."

Buccellati brushes the mark on his face with gloved fingertips, as some semblance of his earlier smile returns. It's slow and fragile, but it's _there_ and growing stronger by the second. Then he nods, his ears pinker than the chill accounts for, and hurries on his way.

Abbacchio watches him go until he's gone, trying not to think about how Buccellati didn't bother to wipe his cheek off.

The thought is enough to keep him warm all the way home.

x

Today is _perfect_, because they finally have time to be properly _alone_, in the comfort of Abbacchio's own apartment. Out of the cold and away from their shitty (not at all lovable) team.

Buccellati's schedule is miraculously cleared, so he's free to lounge on Abbacchio's couch and function as a cozy pillow. His thighs are so comfortable that Abbacchio doesn't even remember what movie they're supposed to be watching – it very much faded into the background the second Buccellati's fingers started running gentle through his hair.

It's only a matter of time before he falls asleep under this careful touch…basking in the attention and mere presence of Buccellati…

One of Buccellati's hands leaves his hair to stroke over his cheek instead, and like this, it's all too easy to turn his head some and kiss at those fingertips. Because he hopes it'll earn a fond tilt of Buccellati's mouth – and it _does_, and god, Abbacchio wants to lose himself in that.

Wants to drown in the warm blue of Buccelalti's eyes, or sit up and wrap around him properly, pull him down so they can –

Buccellati's laptop pings, and Abbacchio is ready to commit real actual murder.

That damned machine is still sitting open on the coffee table even though there's supposed to be no fucking work today, and Abbacchio is too furious about its existence to even bother reading over Buccellati's shoulder when he inevitably leans forward and opens the email. (Though admittedly, the squished angle of his head on Buccellati's lap doesn't give him the best view, anyway.)

There's quiet for a moment as Buccellati reads. He's stuck here, for now, and so Abbacchio uses this opportunity to stealthily wind one fist into the fabric of Buccellati's shirt. He sends the other arm to wind around Buccellati's legs. Just in case.

"I have to go," Buccellati announces as he snaps his laptop shut.

Worst case scenario confirmed, Abbacchio grunts out his displeasure and tightens his hold.

Buccellati's fingers rub a soothing apology into the roots of Abbacchio's hair before they abandon it, leaving it starved of affection. And then he tries to stand up, but Abbacchio holds fast, so it doesn't exactly go well. He falls back to sitting with a sigh.

"_Leone_."

Abbacchio deepens his scowl, pressing it into the thighs that are supposed to remain his pillow for an indefinite amount of time until he falls asleep and Buccellati gently urges him into a more comfortable position, wherein Buccellati's entire body will become his pillow, and he himself will act the part of a very warm blanket –

"It's urgent," Buccellati insists, for some reason still bent on leaving this cozy atmosphere in favor of the harsh cold of work.

"So is this." Abbacchio's complaint is muffled by Buccellati's pants and so therefore incoherent. Oh well. The point still stands. He's not about to relax his hold. He's not moving, and neither is Buccellati, for that matter.

…Except that they both are, courtesy of Sticky Fingers.

_Dammit_.

The mission of standing up via zipping poor unfortunate Abbacchio apart is completed, and leaves him to fall dejected to the couch without Buccellati's loving support.

And Buccellati must feel rightfully guilty about that, because he leans down to press his lips to Abbacchio's forehead. "I'll be back," he murmurs into the skin. This is followed up by another lingering kiss, this time to Abbacchio's cheek. "I promise."

Funny that he failed to mention _when_ he'll be back. Which means he's going to be away much longer than either of them want, and Abbacchio had better resign himself to a lonely evening of waiting up.

It's not Buccellati's fault that he's got shit to do. Abbacchio knows this. Their job isn't the kind you can just brush aside to worry about later, certain gangsters have this funny quirk of killing you if you're late, time-sensitive missions exist, etc. etc.

But he still can't help but grumble to himself, "At least kiss me goodbye for real, if you're going to keep leaving…"

Halfway to standing, Buccellati pauses. Raises one eyebrow.

Ah.

Abbacchio didn't mean to say that so loud. His face is heating up, but he does his best to maintain eye contact. He said what he said, after all.

"If you insist."

That's all the warning Abbacchio gets before Buccellati is on him. Catches his mouth with fierce contact, the kind that's easily deepened at this angle, which is something Buccellati takes full advantage of as he presses in – lets his lips slide free only to latch them back on again and again – teases his tongue in and out – nibbles Abbacchio's bottom lip – tangles his fingers into long white hair – steals chaste kisses by the handful in between more intimate ones – licks along Abbacchio's _teeth_ – pushes their mouths together with _insistence_ –

And then he lifts away. Only a little breathless, whereas Abbacchio is _gasping_.

Dark lipstick is smeared over Buccellati's mouth. Abbacchio tries to chase the tempting spit-slick and kiss-swollen shape of it, but Buccellati is pressing a hand to his shoulder and standing up out of reach as he says, "I'll see you soon, Leone."

Then he's gone, the charming bastard.

Out the door before Abbacchio can even begin to catch his breath or calm his heart.

God. Affection festers heavy in Abbacchio's heart and stomach alike as he curls up on the couch with no way to express it. Mark his words, one of these days _he's_ going to be the one to bid a premature goodbye first – see how _Buccellati_ likes it…

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	26. Call

**A/N:** Day 26: Call

Slice-of-life AU feat. sentient stands. Functionally a soulmate AU, but there's no actual mention of soulmates.

* * *

Bruno is running spectacularly late courtesy of waking up to a broken refrigerator – which wouldn't be this much of a problem on any other day off, but today he has lunch plans and Narancia will worry if he's late. Hell, Narancia might even be worried right now, if he's already at the café waiting for Bruno, who always gets there first…

The simplest fix would be to call him, to let him know that Bruno is running behind schedule but definitely on his way. And that's absolutely what Bruno would do! If only his stand would cooperate.

Sticky Fingers is no better than the refrigerator, today.

"Honestly," Bruno mutters under his breath, hurrying through the streets while Sticky Fingers slowly searches through various zipper pockets, "what's gotten into you today?"

A few stashed and forgotten hair accessories tumble to the ground, but he doesn't stop to mourn their loss. These cluttered pockets need to be cleared out anyway, and there isn't really time to stop and re-stash unimportant things, so as long as his wallet stays hidden, he'll keep on the move.

Sure, he _could_ wait for Narancia to start blowing up his phone, but he'd like to spare Narancia the stress. …And anyway, Narancia probably forgot his phone; he has a bad tendency to do that when he goes out.

Sticky Fingers seems to be moving slower than usual, for some reason. Unless it just feels that way because Bruno is in a hurry. Either way it's a hassle.

It _really_ isn't like Sticky Fingers to not admit to where he stashed Bruno's phone and then proceed to agree to search for it only to fumble the whole way through. Whatever this is feels awfully deliberate to Bruno, though he can't even begin to fathom _why_ Sticky Fingers would do this. It's infuriating, but his only option is to keep –

Unless.

Maybe there's another option.

There's a policeman standing on the sidewalk a little ways ahead, lingering next to a parked patrol car.

But what really catches Bruno's attention is the officer's phone. He has it out, is checking it for some reason or another – and Bruno makes a beeline for him out of what's fast becoming desperation.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

The officer lifts his head, looks at Bruno – and pauses. Bruno is aware that he's more than a little harried thanks to all of his rushing around this morning, but surely that's no reason for the policeman to gawk like he is. His eyes are wide and everything. It'd be insulting if Bruno wasn't in such a hurry.

…Then again. Bruno is maybe a tiny bit distracted himself, caught off guard by sharp features and shimmering golden eyes and dark lipstick.

The undeniably attractive policeman blinks. His cheeks are bizarrely pink in the morning sunshine, for some reason. "I'm sorry," he says at last, his voice deep velvet, "what did you need?"

It takes Bruno an embarrassing second to recover from that voice. "Your phone. Can I borrow it?"

A tiny furrow appears between the policeman's brows. "What do you need it for?"

"To call myself. I don't remember which pocket I put my phone in."

That furrow only deepens, but the officer is offering his phone, holding it out with the calling function at the ready. Albeit while muttering, "How many pockets do you have…?"

Bruno accepts the phone, tapping in his number and hitting the call button. There's no need to explain about the pocket thing – most of the world's population aren't stand users, and it would only confuse him more, trying to describe the existence of Sticky Fingers. Not to mention, it would take time Bruno doesn't really have…

He holds the phone to his ear out of habit while the other line starts to ring – and a second later he feels vibrations somewhere around the middle of his back, on the left hand side. What the hell is his phone doing _there_…?

Absently, he returns the borrowed phone, focused more on summoning Sticky Fingers to zip his own free of its backmost hiding place.

"You're a stand user."

A glance reveals the officer standing there, eyebrows raised and phone still resting in his hand. He's looking right at Sticky Fingers (who is taking his sweet time, by the way).

"You, too?"

By way of an answer, the policeman summons a holographic-purple stand with speakerphones for eyes, and oh that's a pleasant surprise. Their head tilts curiously in the direction of Sticky Fingers, and they make a soft elongated beeping noise.

Suddenly, Sticky Fingers is _quite_ efficient. He fishes Bruno's phone free and hands it over with considerable speed – which is almost too fast for Bruno to get hold of – and he scrambles to not _drop_ it –

Sticky Fingers is already hurrying away from his side, and the policeman's stand mirrors this movement with a couple steps of their own, until they're close enough that if one of them so much as twitched, they'd brush against the other.

"Arri," Sticky Fingers says.

His new stand friend nods their head, and then makes a series of sounds that remind Bruno of a dial tone, interspersed with a few bits of static and cheerful beeps here and there.

Whatever they said – if anything – makes Sticky Fingers _smile_. Bruno feels the shadow of it on his own face, which is…kind of weird. That's. Not a common thing.

The conversation continues for a few turns, and all Bruno can do is stand here bewildered. Phone cupped in his palms.

Sticky Fingers has never done _anything_ like this before. He usually keeps to himself (that is, when he's not tolerating Aerosmith's tendency to ride on his head, or plucking Sex Pistols off of his dangling zippers that they like to swing on).

He doesn't usually…_converse_. Overmuch.

The policeman seems just as perplexed. That cute little furrow is back, accompanied by a stern sort of frown as he watches.

…Bruno ought to introduce himself properly, maybe. Seeing as their stands are hitting it off, and all. And. The officer is, as previously noted, very handsome. He only gets more attractive, the longer Bruno looks, which is altogether too long. Probably. (Definitely.)

His phone vibrates in his hand, and he nearly jumps, finally tearing his eyes away from the policeman to see Narancia's name on the caller ID.

Swearing under his breath, Bruno realizes that he is now a good fifteen minutes late. "I have to get going," he says, earning himself the attention of stands and policeman alike. "Thanks for letting me use your phone."

He hurries off, then, dispersing Sticky Fingers – or trying to, but Sticky Fingers stays stubbornly tangible for a handful of seconds –

Long enough to haul the stand of that _total stranger_ into a _hug_ before he agrees to dissipate.

What the –?

Bruno really has to be going, keeps his face forward, tries not to puzzle this out yet, can't bring himself to turn and check for the policeman's reaction though he thinks he hears a muffled, "No problem," or something to that effect.

…The sensation of his arms wrapping around solid warmth stays with him, no matter how he tries to shake it off as he accepts Narancia's call and rushes to the restaurant.

x

"Sticky Fingers, _where_ is my phone?"

"Arri."

Bruno crosses his arms, and Sticky Fingers – wearing an insolent pout – does the same. His stand is refusing to cooperate. No matter how many times Bruno pleads with the _manifestation of his own soul_. "This is getting ridiculous, you know."

Sticky Fingers lifts one arm out of their folded position so he can stick his thumb and pinky out of a fist and mime holding a phone up to his ear. "Arri, arri," he explains. Shrugs and then gestures to himself. "Arri."

And Bruno frowns, barely managing to contain an eye roll. "Moody Blues can call you back any time – I have a _scheduled_ conference call that I need to be on. For _work_."

Apparently taking some kind of offense to that, Sticky Fingers spreads his fingers and taps insistently at his own chest. "Arri!" he protests. His frown is deeper than Bruno's.

"Pericolo still hasn't forgiven me for the last call I missed."

Reasoning with Sticky Fingers is a lost cause, though. He only re-crosses his arms and sticks his nose in the air with a harrumph sort of noise. No matter how Bruno tries to disperse him, or how strongly he wills his own stand to cooperate, Sticky Fingers stays put. Surely more stubborn than Bruno himself has ever been.

The muffled sound of Bruno's phone vibrating interrupts their standoff, and Sticky Fingers' face lights right up. He lurches for the arm of the couch, unzipping it along the underside to retrieve Bruno's phone. The caller ID reads 'Officer Abbacchio', and Sticky Fingers answers it with glee.

"Arri!"

Bruno can just barely make out the muffled dial tones and whirrs that make up Moody Blues' speech, coming from the other line.

Whatever the other stand said, Sticky Fingers laughs at it – _laughs!_ – with a fond smile in place as he takes up residence on the couch. Lounging around like some love struck teenager chatting with their first ever partner.

And so Bruno resigns himself to the fact that he will be chewed out by his boss later on. Starts to plan which days off he's willing to sacrifice in penance. Considers where to look for work when he's fired. Thinks that might be overdramatic, and that maybe he ought to just go to his office, see if he can get in on the conference call from his landline…

But even if he does go and save his job, Sticky Fingers will have to follow thanks to his short range. And Bruno will have to explain away his chatty stand, which is the same as admitting that he's slowly losing all control over Sticky Fingers, which would _not_ impress his superiors – and, right, yeah, that's why he didn't do that last time.

Plus, Sticky Fingers would get mad at having to move, which would irritate Bruno. When they get caught in a cycle of annoyance like that, it isn't pretty.

So! Instead of the office, Bruno sinks into the couch, taking a seat in the small space leftover at the end of Sticky Fingers' sprawl.

…He's sure his track record is impressive enough to spare him his job. And anyway, Sticky Fingers' obvious happiness makes his own chest feel too light to be bogged down by stress (though it tries, because stress is a near constant companion of his anymore).

For a good handful of minutes, Sticky Fingers chatters on, sometimes pausing to listen to Moody Blues here and there – and then he lifts the phone away from his ear, and for a second Bruno has hope that he won't have to grovel to his boss.

But no such luck. Sticky Fingers turns the phone to point the screen at himself. Flashes a tiny grin, and gives an especially cheerful, "Arri!"

There's some friendly beeping and a whirr in response, more coherent like Moody Blues is on speaker.

That's a new one.

"…Are you _video chatting_ with him?"

Sticky Fingers nods, and even turns the phone around to show Bruno. Moody Blues is there, offering a wave that Bruno thoughtlessly returns.

For some reason that simple gesture causes a slightly darker discoloration beneath Moody Blues' eyes, around where his cheeks would be on a human face, but Sticky Fingers reclaims the phone before Bruno can puzzle out what that means.

The stands' conversation picks back up, and it has a different tone to it than before.

Bruno is eavesdropping and he knows it – not like he can _help_ it. He's stuck eavesdropping every time, but this feels especially like an intrusion, right now, even though he can't really understand what they're saying.

"Moody Blues!"

_Oh_. Bruno's heart stutters at the sound of that voice, and he may or may not sit up a little straighter, pay a little more apt attention to the goings on at the other end of the line.

"Get off my phone, we have work to do." (Relatable.)

There are some sounds of protest from Moody Blues' repertoire of beeps, and Sticky Fingers is frowning at the distress.

"Don't give me that," Abbacchio grouches.

"You can call your boyfriend back later," says a voice that Bruno recognizes as belonging to Abbacchio's partner, and well, damn, Bruno didn't need that particular word applied to the weird rapport that Sticky Fingers and Moody Blues have struck up.

…He can't say it's not entirely accurate, but that doesn't mean it doesn't put certain presumptuous ideas in Bruno's head and set his heart stuttering anew.

More angry grumbling from the other line, more whirring and dial tones, and then Sticky Fingers chimes in with a series of gentle "Arri,"s. Bargaining or something. Bruno isn't sure, but whatever it is earns a melodic chiming from Moody Blues.

Then Sticky Fingers sits up and thrusts the phone at Bruno with so much gusto that Bruno nearly drops it.

Moody Blues is gone, and in his place is a disgruntled Abbacchio. He has a small, scabbed-over cut on his cheekbone and his hat is missing, but otherwise he doesn't look too worse for wear as he mutters out a, "Hi."

It hits Bruno that this is the first time he's been face to face (in a manner of speaking) with Abbacchio since they met all those weeks ago. Fleeting as that meeting was. Abbacchio is more handsome than Bruno remembered. There is a real actual grumpy pout on his face, too, and it's _cute_ –

And one single word from him is enough to make Bruno's heart fold in on itself. He tries for a smile, but definitely misses the mark. "Hello."

"I'm sorry Moody Blues tied up your line again. He's supposed to be working. This is the third time this week he's slacked off…"

"I'm sorry, too." Ah, there's a smile at last, or at least it feels like one. Probably wonky from disuse, but better than nothing. "I tried revoking phone privileges, but Sticky Fingers is better at hiding things than I am."

There's a snort of laughter from Abbacchio, and his mouth tweaks on a smile. It is not at all good for the health of Bruno's heart.

This is the fault of their stands. It _has_ to be. This unabashed fondness that rushes through Bruno's entire being whenever he gets to talk to Abbacchio can't be the product of anything other than shared, secondhand attraction.

Because Abbacchio is nice, yes, and they've talked _some_ when hijacking their stands' calls a couple times – mostly to figure out what the hell is going on and to offer apologies and swap names (this is how Bruno learned that Abbacchio works for a special police faction composed entirely of stand users). Nothing substantial or too in depth…and _yet_…

"Zippers?" Abbacchio guesses.

"Zippers," Bruno confirms. "He's concealing them, now."

"Tch, these two…" Abbacchio runs a hand through his short white hair, glaring off to the side where Moody Blues must be. From the sound of it, his stand is busy rewinding. "Listen, I was wondering…" he continues, not facing the camera, "do you think if they met up, they'd stop calling so often?"

The thought of seeing Abbacchio in the flesh instead of through a phone screen sets Bruno's out of control heart off again, and his stomach swoops – and he fights not to send an accusatory glare in Sticky Fingers' direction, because this is _all his fault_.

It takes Bruno a quick second to compose himself, during which he spots what's either a blush or sunburn coloring Abbacchio's cheeks.

"I…think they might agree to text instead, at least."

Abbacchio _laughs_ – a short, quick thing – and his expression cracks open fully during it. His eyes have a pretty sort of sparkle to them when they fix back on Bruno. Oh hell.

"So, should we…"

"Get together?" Bruno kicks himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

That's definitely a blush on Abbacchio's face. His cheeks flush so dark that it's unmistakable now, even in the meager lighting of wherever he is. "Yeah – yeah it's…for the best, probably. So our stands can…" he clears his throat, "work this out."

"Right." Bruno shoots a glance at Sticky Fingers, who is closer now, sitting on his knees and looking far too pleased. "Our stands."

"Okay." Abbacchio glances over his shoulder at something – or someone – scowling at whoever or whatever it is before looking back. His expression eases to something softer when he does, and Bruno fails not to take it to heart. "So we'll…dinner?"

Stands do not eat (Sex Pistols notwithstanding). Bruno does not feel the need to point this out in any way. "Dinner sounds nice."

A dazzling sort of smile splits Abbacchio's face for a moment, and he ducks his head. He schools his expression quick enough, but the image of that smile is seared into Bruno's brain for all eternity. He'll think of little else in days to come, and again, surely Sticky Fingers and Moody Blues are to blame.

"That's great," Abbacchio says. His partner calls for him, and Moody Blues makes a noise. "I have to go, we just caught wind of this guy we've been tracking and Moody Blues almost has him – but I'll…"

He hesitates for so long that Bruno can't resist. "Call me?"

"Yeah." There's another real actual laugh – this one sharper – and a wry smile from Abbacchio. "I'll call you."

* * *

**A/N:** This is the longest one yet and I Am Tired but it's the only idea I had,

Thanks for reading-!


	27. Hands

**A/N:** Day 27: Hands

Warning for casual mentions of murder, the non-graphic existence of the corpse itself, and hand removal/reattachment via Sticky Fingers.

* * *

"Can you hold this for me?"

On reflex (because he's good at following orders when he wants to, no matter how many times Buccellati badgers him for his supposed senseless stubbornness) Abbacchio reaches out to take whatever it is without a second thought –

Only for Buccellati to drop an _entire fucking hand_ into his waiting palms.

"What the fuck –" Abbacchio scrabbles for a moment, but manages not to drop the zipped-off hand. Upon closer inspection he recognizes it as belonging to Buccellati, and cradles it with maybe a bit more care. "What the hell is –"

"Sh!" Buccellati hisses, from where he's crouched down and busy zipping the hand of the poor, unfortunate, very-much-dead head of security onto his arm in place of his own. "Just keep hold of it," he whispers. "I can't leave it here."

Kind of in the middle of a heart attack, Abbacchio has no idea how to respond to that. All he can do is stare at Buccellati's severed hand. It's still warm, and the neatly zippered apart edge assures that it won't start bleeding, or anything – but he's never exactly seen this separated from Buccellati's arm before, and it is going to take a hot minute for this to not feel freaky as all hell.

…Buccellati's nails are immaculate, and his skin is soft, if a bit dry around the knuckles. There are a couple callouses, too. In spots where a pencil or pen would rest, from the looks of things, which is proof positive that Buccellati works too much…

Abbacchio realizes that he's running his thumb along the back of this hand, and abruptly stops when he wonders if Buccellati can feel it.

"You want me to just…"

"Carry it, yes."

Buccellati is standing back up now, rubbing at his newly attached appendage. He's either oblivious to or uncaring of Abbacchio's disquiet. Absorbed in the task ahead of him – which right now involves stashing the guard's body in the wall via Sticky Fingers' powers – and that's good, that he's so focused, given that this is their job and all.

But. _Still_. Abbacchio is having some kind of miniature crisis over here, with his fingers twitching against the tanned hand in his grasp.

"Can't you put it in one of Sticky Fingers' compartments, or something?"

"No," Buccellati says, as he places his borrowed palm on a hand scanner. With this, they're granted official access to the facility beyond this security room, and Buccellati leads the way in, his voice still low. "It's more convenient if you keep hold of it."

That makes sense. Maybe. In some small semblance of a way? At any rate, Abbacchio can't argue it – not when they're sneaking around in the shadows like this.

But what's he supposed to do? Put Buccellati's hand in his pocket? It could fall out and get _lost_ if left unattended, but what happens if worse comes to worst Abbacchio needs to fight? They're not supposed to get caught or even be seen, because Moody Blues deactivated the security cameras for a time and this place is deserted for the weekend – but there's always a what-if.

For now, Abbacchio supposes he will do as Buccellati requests and…keep hold of it. Out in the open. Like this.

Though, surely, he can free up at least _one_ hand and doesn't have to keep clutching Buccellati's hand between both of his own so tightly. He tests this theory, curling one hand awkward around the limp shape of Buccellati's. It feels weird, and not at all secure, so he swaps to entwining their fingers.

And, yep, that's the ticket. That works perfect. A good, snug fit.

He won't drop it now. Might even be able to punch like this. And his right hand is free.

…The only problem is how _scrambled_ this is making his insides. But he can handle it. He'll get over it. There shouldn't be anything even remotely romantic about clutching Buccellati's dismembered hand in his own, especially considering the way that blunted wrist bumps against his own whenever it's jostled.

But there are butterflies clawing eagerly at the lining of Abbacchio's stomach regardless.

Oh what he wouldn't give to have Buccellati's laser focus at a time like this.

They've come to another restricted access door, so Buccellati again makes use of his borrowed hand on the scanner to unlock and then open it. He ushers Abbacchio in ahead of himself, and lets the door swing shut behind them as they carry on down this newest hallway.

Huh. That felt…odd. Not in the same way that holding hands with a standalone hand is odd, but odd in a normal-life-but-to-the-left way.

Buccellati turns left, Abbacchio at his side, and then opens another door using that hand of his, and, ah, right _that's_ what's odd.

"Why aren't we using Sticky Fingers to break in?"

"Because the scanners keep track of who opened which doors when, and this needs to look like an inside job."

"We're framing the security guy," Abbacchio surmises, sticking close to Buccellati's heels. No amount of conversation can distract him from the feel of that hand held tight in his own, but it can't hurt to try.

Buccellati nods. "He was already causing dissent with his coworkers…complaining about pay…" He pauses at an intersection of hallways, thinking for a second before taking off down the one to the right. "No one will be surprised that he stole a prototype to sell and disappeared."

"Why not have Moody Blues turn into him?" And consequently spare Abbacchio these butterflies.

"There's no guarantee he opened all of these doors before…" This last door that they come to a stop in front of has a keypad alongside its scanner, and Buccellati frowns in thought for a moment before keying in the password and then scanning his hand.

Inside what appears to be a storage room (really, these guys have shit security, maybe they figure an isolated top-secret location is enough), Buccellati makes a beeline for one lockbox among about a hundred lockboxes. "Watch the door," he says, fishing a key out of his pocket.

Abbacchio takes his hand companion – it should be worrying, how casual this has started to feel, even with the hand going kind of cold – and does as ordered (see: another order followed). He's fully aware that this is a dummy job fabricated to keep him busy and distracted so that he doesn't see whatever they came here to steal, but he isn't curious enough to argue.

He takes the sound of a zipper being sealed as his cue to turn around, and watches Buccellati tuck the lockbox back into its place on the shelf.

After that, it's a quicker jaunt back the way they came. Abbacchio keeps close to Buccellati as they go, seeing as he's not the one who spent way too many late nights memorizing the layout of this place and he doesn't want to get lost. Holding hands to not get separated doesn't work when the hand you're holding is severed, after all.

The security blackout that Moody Blues set up is on a time limit, so there isn't much time for conversation until they're back in the security office.

"I'll bury him outside," Buccellati says of the security guard, freeing the limp body from the wall and catching it beneath the armpits. "Can you give me a hand?"

Abbacchio _tries_ not to. Knows that now isn't the time for this kind of thing. But in the end he only hesitates a second before he lifts the right hand clasped in his left and asks, "This one?"

Pausing in dragging the security guard toward the door, Buccellati glances up – and his mouth twitches into a smile before flattening to a neutral line. "We don't have time for jokes," he reprimands, but the lightness of his tone and that amused sparkle in his eye give him away. "Put that in your pocket."

"You don't want it back?"

"I'll get it once we get him out of here – we have less than a minute left."

So Abbacchio tucks Buccellati's hand away in his pocket, making sure it's as deep in and secure as he can get it, and then reaches for the head of security's ankles. Together they finagle him outside, past one more hand scanner.

They carry him to the edge of the facility's fence, and then through it courtesy of Sticky Fingers. Out of range of the cameras, Buccellati returns the guard's hand to his arm before Sticky Fingers buries him deep beneath the ground. In pieces. For good measure.

…This whole time, Abbacchio keeps Buccellati's hand in his pocket.

Only while Buccellati hides the body does he pull it out, reflexively slipping his fingers between those of Buccellati's hand. It is a fully comfortable and well-practiced motion, by now.

Which would be a delightful realization, if only this hand were attached to the rest of Buccellati.

But oh well, Buccellati is approaching with his empty right wrist at the ready, so Abbacchio makes to hand the hand back –

Buccellati hesitates for a second. It gives Abbacchio this weird off-kilter fear that he's ruined the hand or something, somehow. He glances down to check on it, and winds up being just in time to witness Buccellati swooping in and reattaching his hand.

Pressing his wrist right to the cutoff and zipping it back together. Just like that.

Without untangling his fingers from Abbacchio's.

Buccellati then takes advantage of this new grip to bring Abbacchio in for a quick kiss. "Thanks for holding this for me," he says. The warmth of freshly circulating blood floods that stiffening hand anew, and fingers take advantage of renewed movement to squeeze Abbacchio's hand.

That smooth bastard. He's got Abbacchio blushing in the fucking moonlight like some kind of cliché…fucking butterflies still at it in his stomach…

Buccellati gives a gentle tug, guiding Abbacchio toward where they parked the getaway car. His thumb brushes over the back of Abbacchio's knuckles as they walk. "Do you think you could hang onto it a little longer?" he asks, putting the icing on the cake as he _smiles_.

Despite the frenzy unleashed on his insides, Abbacchio manages to grumble a response. "I haven't dropped it yet, have I?"

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	28. Holy

**A/N:** Day 28: Holy

* * *

The afterlife has nice beaches, which is one of the best tidbits that Abbacchio has picked up during his short time here.

…At least. He's pretty sure it's only been a short time – the concept of time passing doesn't really seem to exist here, at least not in the way it did when he was alive. But he doesn't think he's been dead all that long.

Not that it matters.

This beach is nice, is the point, and Abbacchio likes to come here and sit on the sand and think and exist. That's pretty much all there is to do, in this corner he's picked out for himself. For once that hobby doesn't make him miserable. So that's good.

Life (…afterlife?) might be livelier from now on, though, seeing as Narancia showed up less than an hour ago (near as Abbacchio can calculate). He'd clung to Abbacchio and cried himself to exhaustion, babbling incoherently while Abbacchio grouched at him and griped at him and scolded him for ending up dead. Refused to join in Narancia's crying. Which may or may not have been a success.

…You're not even supposed to get tired here, Abbacchio doesn't think. Dead people don't get sleepy, right? He hasn't slept once, since he got here, but maybe it's different for everyone, because Narancia sure was _tired_.

Wore himself out with all his wailing, probably, so Abbacchio set him to nap in the cozy, beachside cottage he's claimed. Promised he'd be there when Narancia woke up, so he should go back inside soon – but he needed some space, and some air.

So now he's basking in the sea breeze and wondering whether he'll get off his lazy ass soon or if Narancia will storm out and chastise him first.

Abbacchio tears his gaze away from the hypnotic waves and considers that cottage. He was drawn to it, for some reason. Still doesn't know why, but after talking to his partner, wandering for a bit…he wound up here. He doesn't mind it. It's cozy and out of the way. Quiet, too.

Or it was until Narancia showed up.

Not that Abbacchio isn't happy to see him, but this whole situation is bittersweet, seeing as this is the fucking afterlife and so therefore Narancia is _dead_ – and agh, fuck, Abbacchio's eyes are hot and stinging. He scrubs at them.

Must be sand. Or the salty air. There's no other explanation for how reddened and sore his eyes are. (The amount of crying he has or hasn't done is irrelevant.)

…

It's…strange.

First his old partner, and now Narancia. Neither of these are people Abbacchio would've imagined to wind up _here_ when all was said and done. Because comfortable and pleasant as this place is so far (all in all, it reminds him of real life, only softer and less frantic) it has to be whatever the afterlife equivalent of _downstairs_ is, right?

This is hell. It has to be – otherwise he himself wouldn't be here.

His partner had been adamant about this not being a halfway point. It's definitely the last stop.

But this can't be Abbacchio's final resting place, not if it's where all the _good_ souls go, because he's pretty sure he was damned from the start.

The standards for wherever upstairs is must be pretty damn high, if someone like _Narancia_ was sent down here. And if the angels are as picky as all that, then there's only one person Abbacchio's ever met who might be holy enough to –

"Leone!"

Abbacchio's stomach plummets. All the strength leaves his body at once. He can't bring himself to turn his head. That voice is – he must be imagining –

"_Leone!_"

Imagination or not, the voice is _closer_, now, and accompanied by the sound of frantic feet scuffing over sand. And Abbacchio's started shaking, tremors running the length of his arms and legs, but he still can't bring himself to turn his head because _it can't be_. There's no way in – in hell.

A heavy weight barrels into Abbacchio's side, and he latches onto it on reflex. Sand is kicked up around them, and he almost falls right the fuck over before managing to brace himself. Which is kind of a hard feat to manage with arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, but he manages, and finally turns his head, because –

"Leone," Buccellati murmurs, arms squeezing with a vice as his mouth finds Abbacchio's cheek and stays there, pressing kiss after kiss to it. "Leone, Leone –"

Right about now is when Abbacchio realizes he's crying (again). Hot tears dripping down his face, in the path of Buccellati's kisses, though he doesn't seem to care.

Trembling hands grab at that familiar spotted suit and Abbacchio presses his face into Buccellati's, trying to return even a few of those kisses. "What the –" His mouth is caught by Buccellati's for a brief second, and he revels in it before it's gone. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm dead," Buccellati says, sounding _way_ more at peace with that fact than anyone should. His voice has a certain quiver to it that Abbacchio can't place, and his eyes are vibrant and wet.

His arms lift away, and Abbacchio almost shivers at their absence. They don't go far, though. Only moving enough so that Buccellati can cup Abbacchio's face in his palms, and brush thumbs over his cheeks. Probably wiping away tears. Abbacchio can't even feel them falling anymore, but his vision is a blurry mess, so he supposes he's still crying like a fucking baby.

As for his own arms, he leaves them wrapped tight around Buccellati. Clinging to him so he doesn't disappear, because if this really is hell, he _will_.

"You're serious?"

"Yes." Buccellati's breath hitches, but _he's_ not crying. Despite being freshly dead. "It's fine, it's been a long time coming."

A depressing line like that would be more at home in Abbacchio's mouth, but he can't put it there or even reprimand Buccellati for saying such a thing. Because his mouth is currently very much occupied by Buccellati's mouth as he's met with a series of lingering kisses that leave him thoroughly breathless. As if all the crying wasn't enough.

Fuck. What does it matter. Who needs to breathe when you're dead? He grabs at Buccellati – holds him as close as he can and kisses him for all he's worth – relishes in the taste and feel and reality of him.

Buccellati's hands tug at his hair in a way that's only painful for its familiarity, and then he's pulling back. He doesn't go far, and his shiny, lipstick-smeared lips are close enough for a repeat performance if Abbacchio were to lean just the tiniest bit forward.

He stays put, though, because Buccellati's palms are on his cheeks again. An insistent path is kissed from Abbacchio's forehead to the tip of his nose, melting the permanent furrow between his brows along the way.

"I'm so sorry," Buccellati says, once he's at enough of a distance for eye contact. "Leone, I am _so_ sorry."

"What the…" Oh, fuck. Abbacchio only just managed to _stop_ crying, and here he goes again. "The _fuck_ are you apologizing for?"

He tries, but he can't get that scowl back in place. The only expressions his face will allow are the kind that release happy tears by the thousand, apparently. He's pretty sure this is the most he's cried in his entire twenty one odd years of life combined. Being dead must loosen the floodgates.

Buccellati still isn't crying, but he looks pretty damn close to it, all of a sudden. "I left you to die all alone."

"That's not your fault, Bruno." Words fall easy out of Abbacchio's mouth for once, thank god. "You couldn't have known – it wasn't your fault."

Tipping forward, Buccellati hugs Abbacchio tight. His face presses into the crook of Abbacchio's neck, and for a long stretch of time, they just _hold_ each other.

Abbacchio's heart is aching something fierce. It's like a hot weight in his chest, trying to melt its way out onto the beach. Because Buccellati is kind and good and wonderful, and he doesn't deserve to be dead. He doesn't deserve to be here, much like Abbacchio doesn't deserve the chance to hold him again.

"Besides," Abbacchio mumbles, eventually, "are you gonna tell me that _you_ died in good company?"

Buccellati makes a sound that might be a laugh, but is more likely a sob. "I said goodbye to Giorno…"

"So you didn't."

With another half-laugh, half-sob, Buccellati lifts his face from Abbacchio's neck. He leaves his arms wound around Abbacchio's shoulders, but seeks out eye contact again. His eyelashes are wet, darker than usual and sticking together with tears. "The future is his, now," he says, the absolute _sap_.

Ugh. Abbacchio tries to wrinkle his nose to convey the disgust he feels, but is not at all sure it comes across. "Even in hell, I can't get away from him…"

Mouth tilted on a gentle smile, Buccellati leans in to press a careful, soft kiss to the corner of Abbacchio's lips, lingering there for a moment. "This isn't hell, Leone," he says.

And – damn it all – Abbacchio _believes_ him.

* * *

**A/N:** I don't pretend to know anything about any brand of afterlife lore, aside from a generic Good Upstairs, Bad Downstairs, so I apologize if my keeping things simple came out offensive in any way. That was not my intention.

I also apologize for sidelining Narancia, but I didn't have the spoons to include another character.

Thanks for reading,,,


	29. Your Choice!

**A/N: **Day 29: Your Choice!  
New Years was a lucrative prompt for me, so here are the other two ideas I had in mind,,

First segment: Warning for mentions of and allusions to someone accidentally getting set on fire.  
Second segment: Warning for steamy content. Another heavy make-out as a precursor to sex with stripping but no full nudity. No sexual activities are explicitly described. Strong T or maybe a light M rating.

* * *

**December 31****st****, 2001**  
**23:47**

"Fireworks are all set up," Trish announces, poking her head into the tiny living room. She looks awfully energetic, given the beachside chill and the late hour and all. (Abbacchio cannot relate.)

Mista, draped sideways in the room's only armchair, pumps a lazy fist in the air. "Hell yeah!"

All six Sex Pistols echo him with varying levels of enthusiasm, most of them with their little stand mouths stuffed full of leftovers, and Abbacchio barely stops himself from chastising them for spitting crumbs all over the carpet. This is _his_ house, after all – well, his and Buccellati's, technically speaking – and so many brats running rampant through it all night long have already left it in a _state_. Which wouldn't be a problem if he trusted any one of them to clean up after themselves…

But. That's a shallow concern, in the end. Shrugged off thanks to the way Buccellati is cuddled up to him on _their_ couch, half lying atop Abbacchio, situated between his legs where he's reclined sideways against the arm of the couch.

Able to sense his irritation, Buccellati sends a hand up to rub soothingly at his chest. It works to dispel some of the grump, and Abbacchio curls his arms tighter around Buccellati in return.

"Thank you, Trish," Buccellati says. And _he_ sounds appropriately tired – but that's to be expected, being as he's still recovering from his stint as a walking corpse, and all. (Thank fuck for Giorno's distant relative.)

Trish preens at the thanks, just a little and mostly for show. "Narancia and Fugo helped some, I guess."

Wait.

That means –

"You left those two out there alone?" Abbacchio grumbles. "With flammable shit?"

"I'm sure they'll be –"

There's a bang, followed by a fwoosh and a flash of light. A shout. Some incoherent yelling.

"Ugh, _god_." Trish frowns, turning right back around to march out of the room the way she came. "Those assholes, can't leave them for a _second_…"

"Take the fire extinguisher," Buccellati calls after her.

Out of sight, there's the sound of Trish lifting said extinguisher from its home in the hall (where it lives tonight in case of this exact situation), and she raises her voice as she heads outside. "I swear, if you two set off any more of those before the new year, I'm going to –!"

The slam of the front door makes her threat go muffled, which is probably just as well. She's gotten pretty creative with them, and proud as it makes Abbacchio, Buccellati still winces sometimes.

Mista is laughing, a sleepy sort of thing that's more delirious than his usual cackle, as he runs his hands over his face and under his hat. "Ahh," he sighs, crazed smile dimpling his cheeks, "it's a wonder any of us made it this far."

Damn right. Abbacchio fights the urge to rub at the spot on his torso where a gaping hole lived for a terrifying few minutes back in April. Mainly because Buccellati is leaned comfortable against it.

Sitting on the floor in front of the armchair, Giorno cracks a nauseatingly soft grin. "You're a sturdy bunch," he says, as if he knows anything. (Yes, Abbacchio is aware that he owes Giorno his life, thank you for asking, but he also would not have been subject to that particular life threatening situation in the first place, were it not for Giorno. So. There you have it.)

Abbacchio's arms tighten reflexively around Buccellati. This earns him a tiny, comfortable noise, along with another chest pat. Which in turn reminds him how satisfying it is, to have the best seat in the house while Giorno is stuck on the floor – and just like that his irritation is soothed.

Beside Giorno sits Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle, and he chimes in with a, "Right you are!" as Mista slaps Giorno on the back and cheers, "You are, too, GioGio!"

That stupid smile on Giorno's face ticks wider. It's _kind of_ sweet, Abbacchio _guesses_. He hasn't seen Giorno make that expression before, after all.

Sex Pistols is starting to get wound up, the more alive Mista comes, and they squeal with excitement when he finally sits upright, using his legs thrown over the arm of the chair to propel himself to standing. He gives an obnoxiously loud stretch, and then pats Giorno on his mess of golden hair.

"C'mon, let's go help extinguish Narancia. He'll probably need Gold Experience to replace a leg, or something."

"Hm." Giorno climbs to his feet, pausing to pick up Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle on his way, and follows Mista toward the hall. "I'd wager that Fugo is the one on fire."

"Oh? You wanna bet on it, boss?"

Their conversation fades out (Abbacchio is loath to admit that he's pretty sure Giorno is going to win that bet, because he recognized those screams from a previous flaming Fugo incident), and is replaced by the slam of the front door – and, fuck, _finally_ Abbacchio is alone with Buccellati. As this holiday _should_ be spent.

"It's nice, having everyone over," Buccellati says. He must be delusional from exhaustion. Poor thing.

Abbacchio kisses the dark head of hair pillowed on his chest. "That's one word for it."

That – even though it's _not_ a joke – earns a laugh from Buccellati. A sweet, puffing thing that sends warmth spreading through Abbacchio's insides.

"You love them," Buccellati claims.

"One or two of them," Abbacchio acquiesces. Only because it's a special occasion.

Humming, Buccellati presses a kiss to Abbacchio's chest, and then leans up to brush another one over his jaw. "It's almost midnight," he says, "we should go join everyone outside."

Abbacchio heaves a heavy sigh, wrapping his arms tight around Buccellati's middle and squeezing his legs in on either side of him. "I think we should stay here."

"Leone," is all Buccellati says, in that lighthearted tone of his.

And fuck, fine, _okay_. Abbacchio unwinds his arms and starts to sit up straighter, allowing for Buccellati to do the same so that they can both finagle their way from the comfort of the couch to the chill of the outdoors.

Fugo is sitting towards the bottom of the porch steps, with Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle beside him and one of his sleeves scorched to all hell. His watch remains unscathed on the opposite arm, and he's watching it closely. He announces, "It's midnight," just seconds before the distant commotion starts up.

Narancia, who someone has given _a lighter_ to, lets out an overly loud, "Whoo!" He dives for the nearest firework, sending it up, and Trish does the same on her end, with Giorno handling the middle. Mista is handing sparklers off to each of the Sex Pistols, and all-in-all Abbacchio fully expects his and Buccellati's quaint little beach shack to burn down by the end of the festivities.

It's still standing for now, though. So Abbacchio leans content against Buccellati, who's resting his elbows on the railing of their worn wooden porch. Wraps an arm snug around Buccellati's waist and cuddles him to chase away the cold as they monitor a handful of irresponsible brats playing with fire.

Pressed to Abbacchio's side, Buccellati tips his head up. There's a serene sort of smile on his face, fireworks reflecting in his eyes and lighting up his face –

And Abbacchio can't help but bend down and press his mouth to that waiting grin.

x

**January 1****st****, 2005**  
**1:12**

Their humble house along the coast is a sight for sore eyes after the grandeur of Giorno's home. Sticky Fingers gets the door – so to speak – as always, and Bruno leads Leone inside by the hand.

It's an hour into the new year, and by all accounts Leone should be too tired to stand. Instead, he's only _almost_ too tired to stand. It's a near thing, and the way Bruno leans him against the front door to claim a deep, languid kiss could tip the scales either way, depending.

A thigh presses in, slipped between his own to rub forward and _oh_.

So the scales are tipping _that_ way, huh?

Leone's head falls back on a groan, his mouth leaving Bruno's with a wet noise.

And Bruno _laughs_ at him. A soft, sweet sound that sets off gentle sparks low in Leone's gut – or maybe that's the steady attention of that _thigh_ – he can't really tell which – probably _both_ –

"Are you tired, Leone?" Bruno teases. He's taken to peppering Leone's throat and jaw with kisses, since he's been robbed of mouth-contact. These plush attentions feel impossibly good, especially so when Bruno presses in tight, body aligning fully with Leone's, his warmth and weight enveloping Leone all over.

"Those damn brats have too much energy," Leone manages to grouch, even as teeth scrape down the side of his neck. He drags his hands up Bruno's back, hauling him closer and breathing him in. "Next year we're staying home just the –" Oh, _fuck_, Bruno latches on and starts sucking a bruise into sensitive skin near the base of Leone's throat. "Just the two of us."

Bruno hums around a mouthful of skin before letting it pop free. Offering a tiny, charming smile that still never fails to dissolve Leone's stomach into butterflies, he says, "That's what you said last year, too."

"And now here we are," Leone grumbles, trying and failing to maintain a frown. Rubs his way back down Bruno's back and settles his hands low.

"We could have spent the night." The playful sparkling in Bruno's eyes betrays this as a joke, but _still_.

"No." Leone can't help the way he arches forward with a grunt at a rougher press of that thigh, huffing as teeth nibble their way along his jaw. "No way would I do this in one of Giorno's –" Bruno is _sucking on his neck again_. "_Shit_ – guest bedrooms."

Giving Leone's marked up neck a break, Bruno drops a kiss on his chin instead. "Me neither."

"Good." Even that gentle kiss overwhelms him, though, and so Leone hauls Bruno into a grind – keeps it up until Bruno is panting out just as many pleasured noises as Leone already is –

"Well –" Bruno gasps, one of his hands winding its way into Leone's hair, tipping his head for a proper kiss that Leone _moans_ into. Bruno's soft mouth works his thoroughly, his lips slick and full and tinted with Leone's lipstick – and Leone does his best to give as good as he gets until Bruno abruptly pulls back and announces, "I'm not tired."

_God_. Damn it all.

Leone clutches at Bruno, leans down to kiss him once, and then again and _again_. Wet and a little sloppy, they're both gasping between each one, and Bruno's lips are thoroughly bitten.

"Me neither," Leone murmurs into that waiting mouth.

"_Good_." Bruno is fingering the plunging collar of Leone's shirt, now. "Because it's about time we finished ringing in the new year."

Leone didn't think his heart could beat any faster than it already is, but there it sure goes, picking up the pace and thudding heavy with anticipation. He knows what Bruno means by that – and even if he _didn't_, the upward tilt at the corner of Bruno's mouth and scant rings of blue around blown-wide pupils would give him some idea.

A handful of well-practiced zippers later, and Bruno is clad in nothing but _red lace_. His body is still pressed up against Leone thanks to his stand's efficiency, and Leone has never been more grateful for Sticky Fingers' existence.

This lingerie is the set that Leone bought him for Christmas – custom-made so that it _clings_ to him – with tasteful cutouts – and the panties cover him, but they don't _really_ –

Leone is having an impossible time curbing his wandering hands, but Bruno's murmurs of encouragement along with a growing heat between them assures him that it's not at all minded.

"_Leone_," Bruno groans, and he's back to kissing and _sucking_ his way along Leone's neck and across his shoulder – which is bare, suddenly, courtesy of Sticky Fingers.

And then Leone's shirt is fully gone, leaving the soft scrape of lace and warmth of skin to overwhelm him as Bruno leans in with insistence – Leone's pants are next – and his hands are sneaking beneath lingerie and he's _kissing_ Bruno again – and –

"_Fuck_," Leone gasps, wrenching his mouth away, almost cracking his head off the door. "We should probably…" he trails off, words lost to the feeling of Bruno's thigh nudging upward as blunted nails scrape down his back.

"Upstairs?"

"Yeah –"

Untangling is a clumsy business, easier said than done, and they trip over each other's feet all the way to the stairs. Leone can't help the bits of laughter that escape him, Bruno smiling right along as they hurry up the steps.

They tumble into bed together, trying to arrange their limbs in some sensible way without pausing their latest kiss, which is _harder_ said than done – but –

There's nowhere else Leone would rather be.

* * *

**A/N:** I have this _very_ self-indulgent headcanon that Crazy Diamond would be able to repair whatever disconnect happened between Bruno's soul and body.

Thanks for reading!


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